


The Pink Portrait

by The Wicked Symphony (SymphonyWizard)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Artist Steve Rogers, Awesome Sarah Rogers, BAMF Natasha Romanov, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2019-09-19 11:33:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 59,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17000844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SymphonyWizard/pseuds/The%20Wicked%20Symphony
Summary: After the war, Steve returns home to find a few things are a bit different.  He's sharing the house with a couple new tenants now.  One of them is particularly aggravating and the other feels like the little sister he never had.  He tries his best to resume his old life, but finds that it's a lot harder to leave the war behind than it seems.  However, maybe, just maybe there is someone out there who will serve as an inspiration to Steve.This is partially inspired by an original work of mine.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mylifeisloki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mylifeisloki/gifts), [Faith2nyc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faith2nyc/gifts), [capfan18](https://archiveofourown.org/users/capfan18/gifts), [Phoebe_Snow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoebe_Snow/gifts), [Rachel3003](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rachel3003/gifts), [dreame12](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreame12/gifts), [xo_stardust720](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xo_stardust720/gifts), [Squid_Ink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squid_Ink/gifts), [CaptainCarolDanvers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainCarolDanvers/gifts), [toonanimals](https://archiveofourown.org/users/toonanimals/gifts).



> Another Nat PoV chapter for everyone.

_I was walking along a forest green and white.  The grass was finely trimmed, not a weed in sight.  In the still quietness, I could almost hear the dull crunch underneath my shoes.  In every direction, the whiteness stands for all eyes to see, placed in perfect rows.  Would it have been a more cheerful place if they were trees?  White trees, like the White Tree of Gondor?  These aren’t even trees. White, identical, and as lifeless as the lost souls they stand in places of, the crosses serve as a reminder of each and every man who had fallen in battle._

_Soldiers who have fought and died in the service of their country lied beneath my feet.  Sometimes, I felt that with every step, the weight of their voices grew heavier.  They called for me.  They wondered why I haven’t joined them.  Why don’t I have a white cross or a headstone with a flag near it, with my name and rank upon it?  Why did I live when the ones I knew didn’t?_

_As I walked, I searched in vain for the friends I had lost.  A sunless sky sat above my head, blanketed by overlapping clouds, as if stitched together with invisible threads.  Thunder rumbled with the force of artillery that my ears had grown so accustomed to, but no lightning pierced the greyness.  Still, my skin was slowly sunk through by the unrelenting caress of rain._

_It was a cruel reminder that I never felt a lover’s caress.  Each tiny raindrop was a frozen hand dampening my very soul._

_As I walked, I soon saw a lone man walking along the rows and rows of crosses. With the loudness of a rude awakening, the man filled the darkness with bagpipes worthy of a hero’s farewell._

“I am no hero,” I say, ceasing my reverie.  I stare down at my drawing critically.  There was a time when I would have used full color, but for a long time now, I’ve been limited to standard charcoals.  I’m used to color schemes, so there is a lot I can do with charcoal, or even just a pencil. 

Like the reverie, there are rows and rows of crosses with precise scribbles resembling the writings upon the real thing.  I used a combination of scribbles and shadings to add depth to the grassy ground.  Slight streaks line the page to resemble rain and further in the page, the rows of crosses end in the dark shadings that are the cloudy sky.  Unlike the reverie, I _did_ add a couple of jagged lines of lightning.

In the center of drawing is the lone bagpiper, turned away from the observer and walking silently away.  Finally, in the front of the page, lying unceremoniously on the ground are the dog tags of my best friend.  Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.  The funny thing is, I joined the war _after_ him and yet I managed to become a commissioned officer before he did. 

Even through the sludge of bitterness, I can still laugh at Bucky complaining about that once in a while.  With the same humor, I would have applied my authority over him, threatening to bust him back down to private for being a baby. 

How we managed to find reasons to laugh when we were getting shot at or sleeping with the fear that we will get shot at is still beyond me.

“You’re a really good artist, sir,” says a small voice. 

I look beside me and stare at the small, light haired boy sitting next to me.  Just as quickly, the boy’s mother scolds him. 

“So sorry, sir, he didn’t mean to disturb you,” the woman apologizes. 

“No, it’s quite all right,” I assure her.  My eyes move to the small boy.  “Thanks buddy.  Do you draw?”

Suddenly very embarrassed, the boy averts his eyes.  “Not much,” he replies in an even smaller voice than before.

“What do you like to do?” I ask curiously. 

“I like to build with Legos,” the boy replies brightly. 

I raise my eyebrows.  “Oh yeah?  Why you might just end up being an architect someday.”

The boy smiles shyly and speaks no more.  His mother however gives me a fond look.  I highly suspect that the boy’s father is out of the picture.  Otherwise her poorly hidden flirtatious smiles would be very inappropriate. 

In any case, I let out a sigh of relief when the captain announces over the P.A. that we are about to descend into J.F.K. International Airport and advising us to please fasten our seatbelts. 

The next half hour or so are a blur as the plane arrives at J.F.K. and we file out of the plane.  Unsurprisingly as I enter the airport, many eyes steal a glance at me.  Many of them, mostly older people, offer me some sort of look of respect, a silent thank you for my service to the United States.  Some of, but not quite limited to, the younger crowd are bold enough to offer me a jeer. 

I’m used to people insulting me for the simple fact that I wear an Army uniform.  I’m currently wearing my Army service uniform.  I’m not the only military person coming in or out of the airport, but that doesn’t make the attention less undesirable. 

Many of them might be aware of a moniker I was given during the war, but I doubt any of them would know that that was me.  They might know me as a man who sported a red, white, and blue shield.  For reasons I’ll never understand, I was given exclusive ownership of that shield.  I couldn’t transport it home through the plane, so I decided to have it shipped home.  Its expected arrival date should be within the week. 

After that, I’m not sure what I’ll do with it.  I might just lock it away where it will gather dust with so many other bitter memories.  

As I start to pass restaurants, I realize how hungry I am.  Airplane food gets more backlash than it deserves, but it’s a plane.  If I were to get the food to my heart’s content, I’d eat just about half the food on the whole plane.  Despite my hunger, I fight hard to control myself. 

I’d very much like to wait until I get home to have a proper meal.  Despite all the hustle and bustle, I manage to make my way out of the airport.  I’m so glad that I called a car service ahead.  It doesn’t take me long to find the car that is waiting for me. 

Not long after, I’m on the road towards Brooklyn Heights.

I have finally returned to the city I grew up in.  Strangely it feels so…foreign now.  I should be feeling at home seeing the innumerable buildings all around, as well as the Atlantic Ocean not far off.  A smile should be lighting up my features as the thought of hearing the mess of different languages all around. 

New York City could really be considered a world of its own.  There are just so many cultures in this city, it’s amazing.  There’s a little niche for just about every group there can be.  Some are limited to just a few blocks.  Growing up, some of favorite haunts weren’t always limited to Brooklyn Heights.  A jazz steakhouse in Harlem; a bread bakery in Little Italy; Coney Island; a playground in Hell’s Kitchen where I sometimes ran into a couple of old friends; there are so many.

I try to remind myself that it’s highly unlikely that one in every ten vehicle I see has someone hiding an R.P.G. within it.  I’m not about to die for the mistake of not having a firearm or my shield.  A shield might be a medieval weapon, but the one I had was very useful.  If it wasn’t the only one of its existence, I daresay weapons developer, Tony Stark, would have made a huge profit out of them.  New York’s Finest might have even replaced their riot shields with them.  

But vibranium, the metal my shield was made out of, is extremely expensive and the Wakandan government only sells so much at a time. 

I should feel safe being back in the city I grew up in, but I might as well have stepped into a different one, like Chicago maybe.  I think about that for a minute.  I never had deep-dish pizza.  That sounds pretty good right now. 

The city is a blur as I’m driven home.  I barely register it as I enter Brooklyn.  I take to glimpsing the people.  Even at a second’s glance, it’s not hard to distinguish the native New Yorkers from the tourists.  In a way, I admire the innocent fascination of tourists.  In their inexperience to the life of New York, they have a sense of appreciation for the city that the native New Yorkers sometimes lack. 

A tourist can easily be fascinated by a pastry shop that has been in someone’s family for multiple generations, whereas a New Yorker would easily pass it by like everything else in their daily treks between home and work.  Even I’m guilty of that.  Now that I think of it, I might actually make a goal of visiting places that I never thought to visit before. 

Eventually, we enter Brooklyn Heights and I count the minutes until the cabby reaches my address.  I start to see the terrace houses—wait, _townhouses_ —that make up much of the neighborhood.  I think I spent too much time with Peggy Carter, a British Intelligence liaison with whom my unit was teamed up with much of the time. 

I miss that woman.  I spent a long time in a coma and when I woke up, I hoped to track her down and go on that date that we talked about.  She had transferred to the Los Angeles branch of the Strategic Scientific Reserve.  I later found out that she had started a relationship with another veteran, Daniel Sousa.  From everyone I’ve spoken to, they seem quite happy together. 

I wasn’t about to walk back into her life and turn it upside down.  At least, not without returning home where I belong first. 

The car finally comes to a stop and I stare up at the three-story townhouse that has my mother and I have shared for so long.  Outwardly, it is as nondescript as every other brownstone building on the block.  People too often underestimate the beauty in the buildings that all look the same. 

“We’re here, sir,” says the cabby. 

“Thank you,” I say graciously, paying the man.  I then get out, grab my few bags out of the trunk, and then head up to my house as the cab drives away.  It feels so strange to do so, but as I reach the blue door with a small American flag close to it, and ring the doorbell. 

A minute passes, and then another and I suspect that no one is home.  I check my watch.  It’s one in the afternoon, it’s a weekday, and I imagine my mother is still at Brooklyn Hospital Center.  Being one of the top oncologists in the state, if not the country, my mother Dr. Sarah Rogers, M.D. tends to work long hours.  She raised me by herself as best she could, doing her best to give me the childhood I deserved, but I did have to grow up in something of a hurry. 

No matter, I don’t think I could have asked for a better mother.  In fact, in my youth, she spent more time teaching oncology rather than practicing it.  She only really started practicing oncology on a frequent basis once I graduated high school. 

Not really in the mood to stand outside all afternoon, I look for where I hid my old house key.  Leaving the stairway, I go up next to it.  I lean down and scan the corner where I know there is a small divot in the bricks. It’s actually quite easy to miss. 

I run my fingers along the bricks and eventually I find the divot.  I smile triumphantly and pull the old key out.  I grimace.  It’s so rusty, will it even work?  There is only one way to find out.  I return to the front door and insert the key into the keyhole and turn.  I let out a sigh of relief as I turn the doorknob and step into my house. 

A wave of warmth fills me up as I step into the narrow foyer.  Directly in front of me is a narrow staircase that leads up to the upper floors.  The rest of the room, really the whole floor, is dominated by the large living room with a half-bath and the kitchen towards the back of the room.  The items in the room seem to have accumulated in my absence. 

It looks like Mom finally got rid of the old TV and replaced it with a large, fifty-five inch ultra-HD set.  For some reason, I doubt that she would have bought that willingly.  I can just picture her saying something along the lines of,

“It’s so big, you can hardly see it.”

The thought of seeing my mother again brings tears to my eyes.  Tired of this uniform, I head upstairs to the second floor.  This house has four bedrooms and mine is the second largest.  Mom always talked about leasing out the house to some people, but it never happened. 

I hope she hasn’t turned the room I used as an art studio into a bedroom.  I doubt it, but it would have made me very upset. 

When I reach the second floor, I enter the small hallway and walk up to my bedroom door.  I hesitate for a moment, but soon I turn the knob and step into the room.  It’s almost exactly as I left it.  There’s no layer of dust, to maybe Mom just gave it a routine dusting so that it didn’t seem neglected.  The queen mattress is bare, just begging for a set of sheets.  My desk stands attentive with my elaborate computer setup, but I didn’t do much computer stuff other than for homework.  A modest bookshelf full of my favorite books as well as my sketchbooks stands right beside it.  My dresser sits on the side of my bed that isn’t bordered by the window.  Finally, next to my door is my closet.

After spending so much time in place where the wilderness outweighed the civilization, suddenly the view of the street doesn’t seem as appealing as it once did.  I have a number of paintings and sketches of the street in all kinds of colors and mannerisms. 

I walk over to my dresser and open a drawer.  I find an old Army T-shirt from my days in Basic Training.  It’s much too small for me now.  I went into the Army a frail, ninety-five pound asthmatic; I came out a six-foot-two mountain of muscle.  I do have a serum to thank for that. 

That’s probably one of the worst memories of my military career, being the first and only lab rat of an experimental super soldier serum.  I need to buy new clothes. 

“Fantastic,” I mutter dispassionately.  Soon, I remember how hungry I am. 

I head back downstairs and see what I can find in the kitchen.  Mom wasn’t the best cook, so cooking is one of the things I had to learn growing up.  Bucky’s mother is a fantastic cook and on many occasions, she came over and commandeered my kitchen.  In some ways, she was a bit of a second mother to me.  She taught me all about cooking.  With smug humor, I remember her complaining about how lousy Bucky’s cooking was. 

He couldn’t even scramble eggs without burning them.    

I love to cook.  In Mrs. Barnes’ own words, I could be a real competition in culinary arts school if I wanted to.  I love to cook, but I could never do it competitively.

I open the large wood-paneled refrigerator.  Hallelujah, it’s fully stocked!  Eggs, bacon, sandwich stuff, fruit, vegetables, leftovers… I should probably avoid the leftovers.  Then I see…peanut butter cookies. 

“Yum,” I moan.  I grab the container and pull some out.  The plates are where I remembered them and I select a small one.  I then microwave the cookies for a few seconds and pour myself a tall glass of milk. 

When the cookies are done, I take them out and take a bite out of one.  The cookie is delicious.  Whoever made them must be a really good baker.  Wait, I stop mid-chew as I hear something.  I turn around just as something—an umbrella?—almost whacks me in the face.  I catch it just in time.  I drop everything and wrench the object from my assailant’s hand. 

I…struggle?  We tumble to the ground together.  This woman is a hell of a fighter.  She grabs a knife from the knife block and my eyes widen.  “That’s not nice,” I admonish, as I grab a hand towel and wrap it around her arm just as she tries to stab at me.  I manage to pry the knife from her hand just before her other fist collides with my face.  Then she kicks out my feet from under me and I land on my back with a nasty thud. 

The woman then pins me down with a heel and holds another knife up threateningly. 

“Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?” the woman demands. 

I try to come to my senses.  The woman’s voice sounds…Russian.  Where is she from, Brighton Beach?  My eyes clear and they narrow.  My assailant is a petite redhead set with prominent breasts and well-defined curves.  Her arms, as delicate as they may look, suggest toned muscle as well.  Her long legs are...well, perfect. They have that steady mixture of shape with a subtle hint of muscle that reminds me of a dancer’s build. Ballet, perhaps?  Her face is set with high cheekbones that could slice onions, full lips, and eyes the color of a misty spring meadow, and—

“Quit staring at me!” the woman screams, raising the knife a little higher.  “Who are you?”

“Who am I?” I ask, uncertainly.  “Who the hell are _you_?”

“I asked you first,” the woman reminds me flatly.

I roll my eyes.  “I’m…”

“Natasha, what the hell is going on?” asks another female, though younger, voice. 

“Stay back, Wanda,” the woman named Natasha warns.  “We’re dealing with an intruder.”

I pause for a minute.  “Oh, my God,” I moan.  “This ‘intruder’ is Steve Rogers, thank you very much.”

Natasha whips around and faces me again.  “Wait, what?  You’re Sarah’s son?”

“Yeah,” I reply dryly. 

Natasha’s cheeks turn as red as her long, wavy locks.  She lowers the knife and removes her foot from my chest.  “I’m so sorry, my name is Natasha,” she introduces, holding out her hand.

My eyes shift from her face to her hand dubiously.  Finally, I relent and grasp her hand.  “Nice to meet you,” I seethe as she helps me to my feet. 

Mom has some explaining to do.        

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The main character that Steve stands in place of was originally a bespectacled young man with Asperger’s syndrome who was prone to being overly formal and didn’t like being touched very much by other men, so I’ve had to modify the story quite a bit to fit Steve’s personality. Still, I apologize if I end up going too OOC with this story.


	2. Chapter 2

I listen intently as the two young ladies share their stories across from me in the living room.  Both of them sound a bit nervous as they speak to me.  I’m sure I look about as welcoming as I feel, even if I have a bag of frozen peas pressed to my head. 

Two tours of duty and no one has ever hit me that hard.  Even when Bucky and I found ourselves competing against each other in the boxing ring, even his hardest punch couldn’t compare to this Natasha’s whack with an umbrella.

Maybe it was the fact that she was acting out of fear?  Perhaps it was purely the fact that she thought me to be some sort of imposter?   

Either way, I want to hurt her.  I want to return the favor. 

Even as she shares her own story, I keep my eyes pointedly focused on a random spot anywhere that is not her.  Truth be told, she’s a difficult woman to keep my eyes off of.  There’s just something about her that makes me want to pick up a piece of charcoal.  What could it be?  Is it the way her hair reminds me of a sunrise off the sands of Coney Island?  Ort the way her eyes have the intensity of a summertime storm?  Or even just her skin which seems to be the perfect shade of vanilla?  Or the way her voice is so deliciously smoky? 

Hell, she makes me want to pick up a paintbrush again! 

I lost the inspiration to paint a long time ago.  Was it because my heart was broken?  Was it because I finally grew tired of people calling me names for having paint stuck under my fingernails or charcoal stains all over my hands? 

Even her story is intriguing, to say the least.  She comes from Russia.  It explains the accent, but it’s not particularly heavy.  Either she has spoken English as a second language for a long time, or she has been in America longer than she is letting on.

She comes from Volgograd and despite my annoyance with her, I couldn’t help offering my condolences when she shared that she was orphaned at an early age.  By her terse thank you, I could tell that she was more than used to hearing those words.  She may even be tired of it. 

About as tired as I know I already am when people tell me that the wounds I have suffered in the war will mend with time.  A scratch or a bullet wound can heal; heartache can last a lifetime.

Wanda had a similar story to tell.  She comes from Sokovia.  In fact, it was only six months ago that she had finally obtained her visa and passport after a two-year struggle.  I think that that deserved congratulations.  Of course, after obtaining her visa, she was faced with the whole new trouble of finding a place to live. 

She quite literally ran into Natasha in Manhattan, who then introduced her to my mother.  Mom can be a hard woman (I’ve seen her make interns wet themselves with just a lecture on the proper procedure of removing a lung tumor).  Of course, my mother has moved up from being a surgical oncologist to a medical oncologist, but sometimes she performs surgery.  However, once she removes that lab coat, she’s a very a sweet woman…as long as you don’t piss her off.

I do feel bad for her though.  She clearly wasn’t keen on sharing the details, but from the gist, it sounded like she escaped a rather awful situation in Sokovia.  She lost someone very close to her.  I do wonder if it has something to do with that gold medal that I’ve caught her fingering on and off.

She replaces that medal back into her pocket as quickly as she takes it out.  In the brief instances that I’ve caught her fingering it, I picked up enough details to know that it is an Olympic medal.  I don’t ask, but I wonder, is she an Olympic gold medalist, or is somebody close to her?  Whatever the case is, I can tell that the medal is a source of comfort for her. 

She’s a rather attractive young lady as well.  Her brown, sleek hair is very long, tumbling down her shoulders and disappearing behind her back.  Given where some of her locks end in her front, I can safely assume that her hair goes halfway down her back.  Before everyone sat down, I also saw that she stands a few inches taller than Natasha.  She’s still a small girl, but Natasha is the runt.

Natasha sure as hell doesn’t hit like a runt.  Does Wanda have similar fighting skills? 

“So, um, what do the two of you do?” I ask, making myself more comfortable on the couch.  I wince as I speak.  I heal quickly, but there’s going to be a lot of swelling before this headache heals.

“I teach ballet to children out of a studio three blocks from here,” replies Natasha. 

I raise an eyebrow as I look her over.  “So my suspicions were true,” I mutter.

“Excuse me?” asks Natasha, narrowing her eyes. 

I clear my throat, fighting back the fire in my cheeks.  “What I mean is that you look like you have a dancer’s build.”

Now she averts her eyes.  If she’s embarrassed, I don’t understand.  Being a dancer isn’t something to be embarrassed about, is it?  Could it simply the thought that I was looking at her body?  That’s a common occurrence in my life.  I watch people, take in the shape of their bodies, and pay attention to their body language.  It’s all part of the careful process that is art. 

“So what about you, Wanda?” I ask, turning to the younger lady.  “Have you found yourself a job yet?”  My mother can be a generous woman, but eventually she does expect something in return. 

“I work at a Chipotle,” she replies.

I raise an eyebrow. “Ah…” I study her for a minute.  “Something tells me that your interests are far greater than a Mexican grill.”

Wanda flashes her teeth with a smile, averting her eyes as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. 

This is getting ridiculous.  Is it possible for me to have a conversation with women without them blushing like maniacs?  Once upon a time, _I_ was the awkward one.  Okay, maybe I’m still a little awkward, but I have evolved.  Peggy would be up for a challenge if she were to tell me yet again that I “still don’t know a bloody thing about women.”

“I actually applied to Columbia,” Wanda eventually says. 

I raise my eyebrows.  “Wow, Ivy League.  Do you know what you want to study?”

“Still working on that,” replies Wanda.

Just then, I hear the front door unlock.  In fact, everyone raises their heads towards the door. 

“Wanda, Nat, you home?” my heart swells at the sound of that voice.  I would know that voice in my sleep.  I hear a sniff or two.  “Has no one started dinner yet?  I thought you two said you’d be making dinner tonight.”

Wanda and Nat exchange an awkward glance and I can’t help but smile.  My mother has always had a habit of doing that to people.

“Oh, well, we can order takeout,” says my mother.  “Anyway, how was your guys’…?”

My mother has stepped out of the foyer.  She dropped everything she was carrying—which thankfully was just her purse, briefcase, and an empty fountain drink.  I rise to my feet with a smile.

“Steve?” asks my mother.

I simply smile, too choked up to say anything.  My mother hasn’t changed much since the last time we saw each other.  In fact, she looks healthier since the last time I saw her.  She even has hair.  Once upon a time, her hair was as violently blonde as mine is.  Her hair is still quite blonde, but it only reaches her shoulders and it’s not very thick.  It will get there eventually. 

Remission, it seems, can be as difficult as having cancer.

Beyond that, she is quite radiant for a woman her age.  I never met my father, and there aren’t many pictures of him, but there’s enough to suggest that I take after my mother more than him.  We have the same cheeks, eyes, and nose. 

The next thing I know, small delicate arms are wrapping around me and my shirt is dampening through with my mother’s tears.  I wrap my arms around her too. 

“Hi, Mom,” I whisper. 

“Steven Grant Rogers, when did you come in?” she demands, pulling away enough to look me over critically. 

I check my watch.  “An hour ago.”

Mom frowns and lifts a hand to my head.  “Darling, what happened to you?”

Natasha clears her throat loudly.  My mother and I turn towards her.  Surely enough, she looks quite embarrassed.  I love it. 

“Did you hit my son, Natasha?” asks Mom.  The tone of her voice couldn’t be more dangerous.

“I…I, um, I thought he was an intruder,” the redhead confesses. 

Then my mother does the last thing I would have expected.  She laughs.  “Well, thank you for trying to hold down the fort anyway.  I’m not sure you could have introduced yourself any better.”

Everyone stares at her blankly.

“Now, tall person, I bet you need new clothes, don’t you?” questions my mother, looking up at me. 

“I do,” I confirm. 

She laughs again.  “Well then, I guess it’ll be takeout and a shopping trip.”

I raise an eyebrow.  “Wait, they are coming?” I ask, indicating her tenants.  They glance back indignantly. 

“I’m your mother, but your wardrobe could still use a woman’s touch.”

I glance back up at Wanda and Natasha, and their indignation has morphed into devious smiles.

And this day just keeps getting weirder. 


	3. Chapter Three

If this department store trip was to be a contest to see how much I could blush, it has been a success. 

I tried to convince everyone that I was perfectly capable of finding my own clothes, but all my mother could say was “Nonsense.”  I understand her desire to be near me after all so much time spent apart, what happened to my privacy?  Have her tenants corrupted her?  Have they hypnotized her?  Did they do something that made my mother think that she had to go out of her way to embarrass me?

I have plenty of undergarments, but my mother wanted to me to have underwear that wasn’t “military issue.”  So I had to endure five minutes of utter embarrassment as she deliberated between me having boxer shorts, boxer briefs, or briefs.  I thought that it would make Natasha and Wanda uncomfortable, but they seemed like they were enjoying themselves.

Based on my observations, for the most part, they were paying more attention to my mother than to me.  What kind of landlady has she been?  Growing up, mostly due to my fragile health, she was fiercely protective of me.  She didn’t keep me from enjoying my youth, but did keep a sharp eye on me.  Is she as protective of her tenants as she was of me? 

Natasha and Wanda seem fascinated with my mother’s cheerfulness around me.  It must be a side of her that they aren’t used to seeing.  Is she as strict with them as she is with her nurses and interns at the hospital? 

Thankfully, the whole underwear part of the department store visit ended very quickly.  Next up were jeans.  Being a motorcycle enthusiast, I wanted to look for tougher jeans, something that I could wear while riding. 

I miss my Harley Davidson.  A black 2014 Softail Breakout and I love it.  I used to drive a 1943 Harley Davidson that belonged to my father.  Technically, I still own it, but it no longer runs.  The Softail was a birthday gift from the Barnes’.  I was so small on my motorcycles.  It made my mother a nervous wreck, but Bucky was confident. 

Even in the war I was given a motorcycle.  It was heavily modified and included a machine gun that could be triggered with a button on the left handlebar.  Due the added weight, it had horrible gas mileage, but it was good for quick skirmishes and guerilla tactics.  Otherwise, it was useless.     

I cannot wait to take my Softail for a ride again. 

The ladies thought that blue jeans and tan pants suited me better than black jeans.  I did manage to talk the ladies into giving me some privacy when I went looking for shirts.  Eventually, I chose several shirts.  I wanted to pay for everything myself, but my mother insisted on paying. 

Eventually, as we wandered around the shopping mall, we came across a leather store.  I tried to avoid it, but Wanda said she wanted to see how I looked in a leather jacket.  In all honesty, it took me all of a half hour to realize that the girl is a difficult person to say no to.

So I let her drag me into the leather store.  I don’t understand why she had been warming up to me so quickly.  During my USO tours, promoting the war dressed in that stupid “Star-Spangled Man” costume, it wasn’t long before women started to flock me.  The dancers especially tried without success to get into my pants. 

I am admittedly a bit daft about women, as Peggy loved to remind me, but I think I know enough to tell when a young lady is trying to be my friend or to seduce me.  As far as I can tell, Wanda just seems very good at making fast friends with people. 

Could it be her adorable smile?  Could it be her infectious laugh?  She does have an easy sense of humor, but she also seems far from shallow.  I’d like to learn more about her. 

As for Natasha, it seems that any chance of us becoming friends was ruined when she decided to whack me in the head.  Misunderstanding or not, I can’t even look her directly in the eye. 

As such, the entire time we were in the leather shop, I tried very hard to avoid her, even falling deaf to her opinion.

I must have tried on half the jackets in the whole store, at least the ones in my size anyway.  Jackets with lapels; jackets with faux-fur collars, studded jackets that made me look like Johnny Blaze; jackets with tons of pockets; jackets with zippers at the cuffs.

“There, that one is perfect for you,” said Natasha. 

All apprehension was ruined when Wanda and my mother mimed their agreement.  The jacket in question was a dark brown leather jacket with a collar, an outside pocket on each breast, and knitted cuffs.  I had to admit, I liked the way it looked on me.  Perhaps the reason I disliked it so much was because Natasha had a similar, though more tan, jacket.  Hers had that asymmetrical zipper that I never found appealing, not on me at least. 

On her it looks rather attractive.  Annoyingly attractive, that is.

So that I didn’t have to keep walking around in my service uniform, sticking out like a sore thumb, I ended up changing into a pair of jeans, black T-shirt, the biker boots I picked out at the leather store, and my brand-new leather jacket. 

Eventually, in lieu of takeout, we simply bought food at the food court.  I have to say, it felt good to have good old-fashioned American cheeseburger.  As hungry as I was, all I could do was stare at Natasha as she ate not one, but _two_ double cheeseburgers.  Where was she putting all of that?  Her body is a perfect hourglass and yet she was eating all those carbs.

I have to admit, I do admire a woman who doesn’t deny herself food for the sake of maintaining a particular body shape.

When we were ready to head back home, we actually ended up taking two cabs.  Much to my chagrin, I ended up in the car with Natasha.  It was a silent trip, neither of us breathing a word.  We arrived home and Natasha paid the cabby.  I was already out and grabbing my shopping bags before anyone could offer to carry something into the house. 

I did however need someone to open the door, my hands being so full.  I immediately headed up to my room with my new clothes.  I didn’t realize just how many clothes I ended up getting.  It took me the better part of fifteen minutes to fill up my closet and dresser.

Not long after I finished putting things away, I heard a knock on my door.  I turned towards it to see my mother standing there.  She told me that the girls were looking for a movie to watch, this being a weekly movie night that they do.  I told her maybe some other time.  I told her that I just wanted to get some sleep. 

I was being honest too.  Until that moment, I hadn’t realized just how tired I was.  Even though it was barely into the evening, I got myself ready for bed, put on my new pajamas, and crawled into my bed. 

I gave up trying to sleep on my bed.  It should have been completely comfortable, but after such a long time sleeping wherever I could, in the sand, on a flat rock, or simply propping myself up against a wall when there was no cot available, my bed just felt too soft.  I might as well have laid down on a marshmallow, being in danger of sinking right to the ground. 

In fairness, I did go from being a ninety-pound asthmatic to a two-hundred-and-ten pound mountain of enhanced muscle.  So my bed sank under my weight more than it should have anyway.  Once upon a time, my memory foam mattress was just what I needed.  Now it’s too soft. 

I grabbed a blanket and curled up on the ground near the window, using a couple of books for a pillow.  Hopefully, I’ll be able to find my bed comfortable again at some point.  Eventually, I drifted off to sleep.

 

_“We got about a ten second window on this, otherwise we’re bugs on a windshield,” I shouted over the roar of the wind.  One by one, my team and I zip lined off the mountainside.  We had no safety harnesses, so it was a flirt with death, our grips on the handlebars being the only thing keep us from certain death from a thousand feet in the air._

_The train was speeding along the track, which looked like it had been blasted right into the face of the mountain.  For a minute, I wondered what safety measures they had in store in case of avalanche.  Soon, we were over the train and one by one we dropped onto it._

_“And back home I could barely get you to ride a rollercoaster,” quipped Bucky._

_I scoffed.  “The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can buy drinks.”_

_“It’s your turn to buy,” Bucky reminded me._

_“No, I believe it’s your turn,” I joke back as we run along the top of the train.  We make it safely to a space between the cars before the train reached a tunnel._

_We exchanged glances as we positioned ourselves on either side of the door.  I silently counted off with my fingers. When I reached zero, Bucky kicked the door open.  It was all over too quickly._

_“Bucky!” I screamed as he walked right into a spray of bullets._

 

I wake with a start, drawing a book out from under my head as if to use it as a weapon.  When my vision clears, I see that it is nighttime.  Panting hard, I wipe a mixture of cold sweat and tears from my face.

I have been having dreams like that a lot lately.  It’s not exactly what happened, but dreams do have a way of distorting reality.  Bucky died saving my life.  It’s a debt I will never be able to repay. 

Sighing heavily, I rise from my position on the ground and quietly head downstairs.  Once I reach the bottom, I go into the kitchen. 

Opening the refrigerator, I pull out a carton of orange juice and pour myself a tall glass.  I drain half the glass in one sip. 

“Are you having a rough time transitioning?”

I inhale sharply as I whip around to face none other than Natasha.  She stands in the living room, her hair pulled back in to a messy ponytail and wearing red pajama bottoms and a white tank top.

“What’re you doing up?” I ask, unwelcomingly. 

Natasha raises an eyebrow.  “It’s ten-thirty; sometimes I stay up a little late on the weekends.  I heard you scream from my bedroom.” Her expression turns tender.  “You’re haunted by the war, aren’t you?”

I swallow hard, finishing my orange juice.  “I don’t need your sympathy.”

Natasha nods lightly.  “Of course you don’t.  We don’t know each other.  Yet as fate would have it, we are living in the same house, under the same roof, and I think it would make things a lot easier if we were to try and not be strangers.  Hell, you think I haven’t noticed you going to heroic lengths to avoid looking me in the eye today?  I’m sorry for that misunderstanding between us, but how long are you planning on keeping me in the penalty box?”

I stare at her long and hard.  I wish I could deny her sincerity, but she is going to great lengths to try and be a friend.  A cruel voice in my head keeps reminding me that my mother would want me to meet her halfway. 

“Fine, let’s start over,” I say.  I step forward and offer my hand.  “Hi, I’m Steve.”

Natasha laughs softly and grasps his hand in a polite handshake.  “I’m Natasha.”

I take a deep breath.  “Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go for a run.”

“If you give me a moment to grab my trainers, I’ll join you.”

I raise an eyebrow.  “Are you sure you can keep up?”  I can run about thirteen miles in a half hour.

Natasha smiles challengingly.  “Well, we’ll have to put that to the test now, won’t we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you all think.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everyone!

_Damn this woman is fast!_ I think to myself.  I let Natasha talk me into letting her join me for a run, expecting— _knowing_ —that I would be running laps around her, but she is fast!  We have been running for a good ten minutes now, choosing a route that I know is comfortably quiet this time of night, and she is on my toes. 

I should really be focusing on the path in front of me, but too often have I found myself stealing a glance at Natasha.  Her hair is still in that ponytail I saw her in earlier, but she switched out her pajama bottoms for jogging shorts and donned a pair of ankle socks and sneakers.  The shorts aren’t inherently sexual, but she has really nice legs.  It’s not the first time I have glimpsed her legs, but this time, all her exposed skin is sheathed in a razor-thin sheet of sweat that glistens in the street lamps, exemplifying the creaminess of her.

It takes a while for me to break a sweat, but I’m sure I look a little similar.  New York is a city that never sleeps, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t neighborhoods that quiet down when the sun goes down.  Live in the city long enough, do enough exploring and it shouldn’t be too hard to find places that are quiet enough to at least go for a jog without worrying about the hustle and bustle that the city is stereotypically depicted with.  It is a city with lots of hustle and bustle, but that is not all it is. 

As such, Natasha and I jog without much disturbance.  The people we do see stay out of the way while we each murmur words along the lines of “Pardon me” and flash quick smiles.

Usually, I’m a morning jogger, but I am a little jetlagged, my brain still thinks I need to wake up at the smallest sounds expecting an attack, and the nightmares sure aren’t helping.  If anything, I feel bad about the fact that I’m taking time out of Natasha’s sleep.  Shouldn’t she at least be in bed?  Savagely, I wonder if this jogging experience is part of a grander scheme to get me to feel more comfortable.  A ploy to ease my transition back into an old life that I’m not sure I will ever find again.

It’s not as if my life was on a clear path before I joined the Army.  My fragile health severely limited the number of jobs I could apply for.  Mom has always made more than enough to support us both, but still I wanted to earn my own money.  I tried selling some of my art, presenting some of my paintings at an art gallery.  I did sell paintings for good prices, I can admit, but it wasn’t getting me anywhere.

So what exactly have I come back to? 

“Steve?  Steve.  Steve!” my ears pick up Natasha’s voice.  I look to my right and I don’t see her anywhere.  I look behind me and I see that I have put some distance between us. 

I slow to a stop and wait for her to catch up.  When she does, puts her hands on her knees, panting.

She exclaims in Russian.  “What happened back there?  I thought we were having fun.”

Now that I realize it, I did go from doing a leisurely jog (a pace that is still extraordinary by human standards) to a full on sprint.  Natasha was able to keep up with me at a jogging pace.  Does that mean that she could keep up with me at a sprint as well?  Is she an enhanced individual similar to me?  If so, what’s her story?  What led her to living under my mother’s roof?

Perhaps I should learn more before I go asking questions.

She studies me thoughtfully.  “What’re you running from?”

By her tone, I can tell that she knows that it has nothing to do with her or some pursuer.  I turn around and start jogging again.  She catches up and blocks my path.

“Get out of the way, Romanov,” I order quietly.  “I told you, _I don’t want your sympathy_.”

“Be that as it may what will you do?” she challenges.  “I’ll let you open up in your own time, but answer me this:  do you really plan to coexist with Wanda and I while staying bottled up from the world?” 

I breathe hard, my eyes boring into those emerald eyes.  If only I could set things ablaze with just my eyes, or cast her away with a simple spell like from a Harry Potter book, or even paint over her like a little mistake on a canvas.  Bob Ross calls them “happy accidents” but right now this woman doesn’t feel like a happy accident. 

“Fine, Romanov,” I relent.  “I lost my best friend in the war.”  I ignore her reaction as she narrows her eyes.  I continue quickly before she can offer any sort of condolence.  “Let’s just leave it at that.”  This time I start running again and she does not try to cut me off.  I ignore her as she falls into step beside me.

The nightly chill seems to have set in.  It bites at my skins with the caress of a scorned lover.  Where the daily sun cooks at my skin, threatening me with sunburn, this has the consistency of cold steel that never finds warmth with my body heat.  It’s June and this could easily have been a muggier night. 

Being a former asthmatic, humidity was not my friend.  My asthma made activities like jogging very difficult.  Keeping up with my regimen during runs at basic training was risky.  I did the best I could and I never backed down.  It was like letting myself get beat up in alley after alley growing up.  It drove my mother _and_ Bucky crazy, but I didn’t like bullies.  I still don’t like bullies. 

The only thing that accompanies the void of my thoughts is the sound of my controlled breathing.  Actually, that could be Natasha’s breathing.  I’m almost tempted to watch her, to see how her chest heaves with every breath, how her tank top plasters to her skin, leave nothing to the imagination, how tranquil she seems compared to me. 

Maybe it’s nice having somebody to jog with.  She somehow seems to provide a silent company in a world that I have long since fallen out of touch with.  She’s a lone red flower in a canvas that used to be full of so much color. 

Suddenly a loud crash sounds in an alley as we pass by, making us both skid to a halt.  Natasha misjudges her step and nearly falls on her face.  I catch her just before she hits the ground.  She cranes her neck and stares up at me. 

“I thought you said you were a ballet instructor,” I remind her as I help her back to her feet, steadying her.  “That was not very graceful.”

Natasha straightens herself.  “Nobody’s perfect.  Now, let’s go see what interrupted our date.”

I gape at her, feeling my cheeks fire up.  “We’re not on a date,” I say, but she is already heading towards the alley.  Sighing, I follow after her.  As I reach the alley, what I see is strange. 

Natasha is tensed up like some readying herself for a fight.  Is she a martial artist on top of being a ballet instructor?  It would explain the muscle that I have noticed beneath her otherwise delicate frame.  So far, she has been proving to me that she is anything but delicate.

As for the alley itself, there’s a mess of a dumpster.  It certainly explains the loud noise that we heard.  Cautiously, I join Natasha as she gingerly approaches the mess.  What does she expect to find—a trash-robber, or a burglar who fell from one of the upper windows?

As if to answer my question, the pile of garbage starts to move, making us both double back.  I also pick up a groan and soon a figure emerges.  It’s a boy.  He’s young, probably barely out of his teens.  He’s short, but much toned.  Maybe he visits a gym frequently.  His chin and nose are somewhat pointed and his brown, tousled hair matches his eyes. 

“Peter?” asks Natasha, helping the young man to his feet.

The boy named Peter groans.  “Oh, hey Nat,” he greets, massaging his bruised back.  “Oh, that hurt.”

Natasha laughs nervously.  “It sure sounded like it, what the hell are you doing in Brooklyn?”

Peter seems to consider his answer.  “I just thought I’d swing by.”

Natasha scoffs.  “Pete, it’s almost midnight; shouldn’t you be home?”

Peter crosses his arms.  “Who are you, my mother?”

Natasha raises an eyebrow and mimics his crossed arms.  “No, I’m your best friend and I’m allowed to worry.  Does anyone know you’re out?”

“No, Aunt May and Uncle Ben are spending the weekend upstate,” replies Peter.  “I have the apartment to myself.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” I cut in.  “Kid, where are you from?”

“Queens,” Peter replies simply.  “And who are you?”  He flashes a teasing grin at Natasha.  “Nat, did you finally get yourself a boyfriend?”

“What?  No!” 

I can’t help noticing that Natasha said that a little too quickly.  She seems to have noticed as well. 

“But you do like him?” continues Peter, obviously enjoying himself.  He must be really brave if he is able to keep smiling even as Natasha’s face turns deadlier than I have ever seen on a woman.  She could give Peggy a run for her money.

“Peter, his name is Steve and he is Sarah’s son who just returned from the war,” Natasha explains evenly.  

Peter clears his throat and walks up to me.  “Peter Parker,” he introduces, thrusting out his hand. 

“Steve Rogers,” I return, grasping his hand.  I try to pull my hand away, but the kid’s hand is very…sticky.  “What’s on your hands?” I ask, trying again to pull my hand away.

“Oh, sorry, buddy,” Peter apologizes, trying and struggling to pull his hand away.

“Pete, what’s going on?” asks Natasha, coming between them to try and pry their hands apart.  Eventually, our hands break free, but it feels like a Band-Aid was ripped off my whole hand. 

“Jeez, kid, are you wearing superglue on those hands?” I ask, massaging my inflamed hand. 

“Long story,” replies Peter, shooting a glance at Natasha.  My eyes turn to her and she seems to understand what is going on.

I will let it go.  “Maybe you’ll tell me about it sometime.” I check my watch.  “Well, I should be heading back home.”

“I’ll go home too,” says Peter.

“Wait, Peter,” Natasha protests.  “Do you even have your wallet with you?”

Peter checks his pockets.  “No, I only have my house key.”

“So what have you been doing, how did you get here?” I question.  I register his appearance.  He’s wearing jeans and a hoodie.  He couldn’t have been jogging. 

Peter clears his throat, looking down at his feet.  Natasha comes to his defense.  “Let’s not worry about that right now,” she urges.  “Pete, why don’t you come home with us?”

Peter gapes at her.  “Oh, I don’t want to intrude.”

“And I’m not sure you should be inviting people into…” I add, but Natasha cuts me off with something in Russian.

“I live in your house; your mother trusts Peter; she won’t mind him spending one night,” she argues.  “Come on, Pete, let’s go.”  She links her arm around the younger man’s elbow and they sweep past me.  “Ugh, and maybe you can take a shower when we get to the house.  Don’t worry; you won’t have to use _lady_ shampoo and soap.”

Peter’s face falls.  “Aw, but I like your shampoo.  And you know that I’ve ended up using Aunt May’s shampoo from time to time.”

“ _Da_ and I can’t help teasing you each time.”

I watch them as they walk away.  Seeing the way that they interact reminds me of a brother and sister bantering.  It reminds me longingly of how Bucky acted like an older brother to me.  Sure he had siblings of his own, but sometimes I think he overcompensated for my jealousy over not having any.  I was a difficult pregnancy for my mother and my father died before they could consider trying again.

Bucky is gone now, but watching the way these two interact for some reason gives me a sense of hope.  Maybe someday, I’ll find a way to have that kind of relationship with someone again.  Maybe I’ll even find room for romance in my life. 

Why does my gut tell me that I might be closer to finding both than I might think?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there is a Ben Parker in this story, followed by a certain inevitability that I'm not terribly excited to be covering. 
> 
> Also, there is a presence of powers in this story, but it's more of a side detail. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed!


	5. Chapter Five

My eyes open to the feel of the morning sun in my face.  I check my watch.  It’s eight-thirty in the morning.  Having slept on the floor near the window, my body has a pretty good vantage point for catching the sun.  As my brain catches up with my body, I notice something that wasn’t there when I went back to sleep.  I’m covered in a quilt.  I smile to myself.  I’m an adult, but Mom is still a mom.

I can’t help examining the quilt itself.  The most dominant color is red with black, blobby swirls.  The swirls range from solid black to translucent, like that of a mourning veil.  Along the outside of the quilt, a stripe of black widow spiders encircles the whole quilt.  The bottom of the quilt is a solid red, although a brighter shade than on top.  On top of all that, it’s very comfortable.  I don’t know all my fabrics, even if I have some basic sewing skills, but the material has the softness of cotton. 

It’s a beautiful quilt.  I wouldn’t even have used it.  I would have chosen to find somewhere to hang it as a decoration.  That’s the great thing about quilts.  They can be a living room decoration, or they can have the same purpose as a blanket. 

There’s something else that astounds me though.  During the war, I learned to wake up to certain sounds.  I slept with a weapon close by and even when someone was on watch, I just knew when someone was approaching me.  I have awful memories of blowing an insurgent’s brains out before he could slit my throat in my sleep. 

I think out of everyone on my team, Bucky slept the easiest.  Either he always went to sleep with a clear conscience or he was really good at reminding himself that he was still a human being after all the mayhem they had been through.

So, it intrigues me that someone would have been able to cover me in a quilt in the middle of the night without me noticing.  Was I just that tired, or was that person just that sneaky?  I try not to stress too hard on the subject.  I rise from my position on the floor and stretch the sleep out of my body.  My legs have a comfortable soreness from the run I shared with Natasha.  That ache should be gone within the hour. 

I select a set of my new clothes, gather up my brand-new toiletries, and head to the bathroom.  On this floor are two bedrooms with a shared bathroom as well as the laundry room.  Why the laundry room isn’t in the basement, I never understood.  The basement is where the dining room and study are which opens up into the garden out back.

I enter the bathroom and give it a look over.  When this was strictly my bathroom, it was devoid of much decoration.  The only color in the bathroom at the time was the checkered tile walls and blue shower curtain.  The tiled wall is still there but I guess the shower curtain wore out.  This new shower curtain is also blue, but it’s made of a heavier fabric.  The large counter has more accessories, _feminine_ accessories.  I definitely have no need for a hair brush, curling and flat irons, or a bunch of other stuff like that.  I wonder if whoever is sharing this floor with me has a vanity table. 

I hope so; otherwise I will have to make a goal of making to the bathroom in the morning before she does.  I walk over the counter and open up the cupboard below the sink.  I see a box of tampons and my cheeks flush.  Why does that bother me so much?  They are a necessity; shouldn’t I know that? 

Perhaps it’s just the fact that I’m not used to see so much femininity in what I used to be my personal space.  I rummage through the whole counter, careful not to knock anything over and I manage to find a place for all of my items. 

Once that is done, I feel like I can finally begin my morning ritual.  I take off my shirt and smear my face with shaving cream.  I always shave before stepping into the shower.  My face doesn’t have to feel quite as enflamed afterwards. 

I’m about halfway done when the door next to me opens.  I jump at the sound and I’m grateful that my razor wasn’t on my face at the time.  I turn and see Natasha.  “Don’t you knock?” I demand. 

She’s in the same tank top and pajama bottoms she was in the night before.  She doesn’t respond to me immediately.  Her mouth opens but no sound comes out.  Her emerald eyes wander for a minute, leaving my eyes.  I follow the path of her eyes and look down at myself. 

 _Oh for the love of_ …I groan.  “What’s the matter, Romanov?” I drawl.  “You’ve never seen a shirtless man before?”

She meets my eyes dumbly.  Typical.  This kind of encounter used to embarrass me horribly, but I have grown used to women gawking at me.  I know some things about women.

“Wait your turn,” I tell her. 

“Uh-huh,” grunts Natasha, backing away in such a way that I’m quite certain she is numb.  Good heavens, I have struck her dumb!  

She closes the door behind her and I quickly go through the rest of my routine.  At one point in the shower, I did take a whiff of Natasha’s shampoo and conditioner.  The fragrances remind me of a sweet and spicy fruit, like apples and cinnamon.  Her body wash is more neutral, probably to allow room for perfume without causing an overabundance of scents.  I overcome my distraction and finish washing up, getting dressed and combing my hair. 

Even when I manage to find a shirt that fits me, it still squeezes against my shoulders.  For a minute, I wonder if could destroy this shirt simply by flexing my shoulders too hard.  At least it’s not like I’m wearing that stupid outfit I was forced to wear during USO tours.  In that gaudy red, white, and blue outfit, I bet someone could stick a dime in my pants and tell if it was heads or tails. 

After I was given the chance to make my own modifications, I was overjoyed to be rid of those tights.  I burned them before anyone was given the chance to buy them off of me for some sort of Captain America exhibit somewhere.

I leave the bathroom.  “Bathroom’s free,” I announce.  Natasha comes back out of her room.  We lock eyes for a minute.  I can tell she is very embarrassed to have walked in on me.  Thank God I was wearing pants.  “Looks like we need to set some ground rules,” I observe. 

“Absolutely,” agrees the redhead.  “You probably take less time in the bathroom than I do, so we’ll agree to let you use it in the mornings before I do.  Assuming we wake up at similar times.”

“And maybe we should organize our things so that our stuff isn’t in the way of each other,” I add. 

“Absolutely.”

“And we take turns cleaning the bathroom.”

“Why not clean it at the same time?”

My eyes turn to a figure coming down the stairs.  As the figure emerges, I see that it’s Wanda.  She’s wearing boot-cut jeans, a pair of slippers, a red tank top and her hair is wrapped in a towel from her shower. 

“Sarah and I clean our bathroom at the same time,” she says.

I share a look with Natasha.  “We just think it would be better for us not invade each other’s personal space,” I explain.  Not more than we already have, anyway.

Wanda scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest.  “That bathroom is big enough that you two can stand in front of that counter side by side without bumping into each other’s shoulders.”

I exchange another look with Natasha.  It seems we are both waiting for each other to say something, anything to use as a retort.

I try to change the subject.  “Is my mother still in bed?”

Wanda clears her throat.  “Oh, that reminds me; Sarah wanted me to let you know that she got called in early at the hospital.”

I nod.  I also silently pray that she doesn’t have to give anyone bad news today.  With cancer, it seems like there is a high ratio of telling people that their days on numbered.  Everybody dies someday, but it’s so much better to die old, having lived a full life.

“So, do you two want breakfast?” I ask. 

Both women smile up at me.  “Breakfast sounds good,” says Natasha.  “Any chance you could wait until I get out of the shower?”

I raise an eyebrow.  “Take your shower, and you won’t have to wait until breakfast is ready.  Don’t worry; I won’t the food go cold.  But unless you want to be eating cereal, you might not want to linger too much.”

The woman scowls daggers at me.  Without another word, she disappears into the bathroom and swings the door closed behind her.

I turn towards Wanda and follow her down the stairs.  As we do, we both stop as our ears pick up the sound of someone snoring.  It sounds like Peter hasn’t woken up yet.  The fact that he’s still here means that mother didn’t kick him out.  She must trust him if she is willing to let him camp out on the couch. 

Based on what Mom said over dinner last night, she doesn’t allow much male company in the house.  Peter must have already been well acquainted with everyone.  Otherwise, I’m not sure he would have the rare privilege of being a guest in this house without waiting for Mom’s permission to come in. 

Wanda gasps. 

“What’s the matter?” I ask, not unkindly. 

Wanda turns around and tries to head back upstairs.  I stop her. 

“Hey, what’s wrong?” I repeat.  My eyes shift towards Peter’s sleeping form on the couch.  He does look a little goofy with one of his legs dangling off the cushions, an arm draped over his face, and his borrowed hoodie is hiked up his midriff, exposing his modestly built abdomen.  He’s a few inches taller than I was before I was injected with the serum that now goes through my body, so I had trouble finding something for him to wear for the night.  Eventually, I found a hand-me-down Yankees hoodie that Bucky gave me a few years ago.  Not want him to have to sleep in his jeans I gave him a pair of my new pajama bottoms.  All in all, he looks a bit silly, wearing ill-fitting clothes and sleeping in an awkward position. 

“Are you and Peter not friends?” I question.  To my surprise, the thought of Peter being in this house having ill history with a least one of its residence greatly bothers me. 

“No, it’s not like that, it’s…” the young lady’s face turns a deep shade of scarlet. 

I smile broadly.  “Does he know?” I tease.

Wanda shakes her head, making the towel around her hair wobble dangerously.

“Does Romanov know?”

Again, Wanda shakes her head, but then stops.  “I mean, I don’t think she does.”

Something tells me that the redhead _does_ know.  “Your secret’s safe with me.  Come on, Wanda,” I encourage as I walk past her.  “You don’t want to miss breakfast, do you?” 

Although if she continues to act awkwardly around Peter, I’m not sure I will be able to contain my humor.

***

About a half hour later, I have the kitchen filled with the smell of omelets.  Going through the pantry, I found some onion, a sparse amount of pepper jack cheese, and green pepper to chop up.  It didn’t take me terribly long to chop everything up.  Onions have always hurt my eyes, but I managed to fight through the sensation.  More than once, Wanda offered her help, but I told her I was fine.  She settled for plopping herself down on a couch and turning on the television. 

Amazingly, even as she started watching some silly teen drama, Peter remained fast asleep.  The kid’s a heavy sleeper.  I wonder if the smell of food is enough to wake him up.

For the most part, the kitchen is set up exactly how it was before I left for the war.  The refrigerator is still organized in a similar fashion based on condiments and juice on the door, the fruit and vegetable drawers, leftovers, eggs, as well as other things to make dinners or sandwiches with.  The pantry still has a carefully thought out system that always reminded me of the pharmacy at the clinic.  Mom’s not a pharmacist, but seeing how she organizes the food in her house, there’s no doubt that she is a doctor.

All that is really different is that now there are things with labels on them.  Natasha and Wanda’s snacks and leftovers are all labeled with their names on them.  Come to think of it, I might start having to label the things that I’d like to have for myself.

Mom has wanted to lease out those empty bedrooms for a long time.  I’m sure that it might have been a little rough at first, as she was learning to be a landlady at the same time that these young ladies were learning how to live by her rules, but she seems to be doing quite well so far. 

On a tenderer point of view, I’m sure that they have both provided Mom with a certain amount of company, even friendship to fill a void in the event that I never returned home.  For that, I am grateful to Natasha and Wanda. 

Speaking of Natasha, it’s not until I finish making the first omelet which I give to Wanda before she finally comes downstairs. 

“Look who finally decided to come down for breakfast,” I deadpan. 

Natasha’s lips curl in a humorless smile.  Like yesterday, her hair is a steady curtain of loose waves with carefully crafted layers framing her face, exemplifying the paleness of her oval face.  A cap-sleeved blouse covered her upper body with a couple of buttons unbuttoned, revealing her unblemished chest, but not quite making a spectacle of her cleavage, even if the garment itself seems to be straining against her bust.  Black boot-cut slacks cover her legs and she is barefoot, showing off her neatly pedicured black toenails. 

“Do you want bacon with your omelet?” I ask.

Natasha’s smile turns slightly more genuine.  Slightly.  “Yes, thank you.”  Her attention turns toward Peter who is still fast asleep on the couch.  Her features brighten up all the more as she quietly saunters over to the edge of the couch and props her elbows on the armrest, resting her chin on her hands.  “Wakey, wakey, Peter,” she beckons in a singsong voice. 

The effect is immediate.  Peter lets out a dramatic yelp as he bolts upright into a sitting position.  His head narrowly misses Natasha’s nose.  What a shame.  It seems to take Peter a moment to remember where he is as his face darts around before settling on Natasha.

She is smiling so broadly at him, I’m worried how I would react if such a grin was directed at me.  “Morning sleepyhead.”  

Peter sighs.  “Crap, I didn’t mean to sleep so late.”

“Oh, hush,” Natasha admonishes sweetly.  “You were tired; it’s Saturday.  You’re allowed to sleep in.  And you didn’t miss breakfast either.”

That’s when Peter inhales deeply and turns his attention towards the kitchen where I’m still cooking. 

“You want an omelet?” I offer. 

Peter smiles brightly.  “Yeah, that sounds good.”

“Then the next one will be yours.”  I find another pan and start melting a chunk of butter in it.  I can make two omelets at once. 

Eventually, all four of us are sitting around the table, either just starting or just finishing our breakfasts.  Despite my unfamiliarity with everyone, it feels quite natural. 

“So you were in the Army?” asks Peter.

“Yes,” I reply simply. 

“What unit?” Peter continues.  “My uncle served in the Gulf War, and then he served another tour after 9/11.”

I narrow my eyes, impressed.  “Oh yeah?  Well then, I’ll be sure to thank him for his services.  But to answer your question, I served in the one hundred and seventh infantry.”  That is partially true.  Captain America might be public knowledge, but the Howling Commandos is officially off the records.

“I’m sure you’re tired of hearing it, but thank you for your service,” says Peter in earnest.  “As my Uncle Ben says, if he had a nickel for every time someone thanked him for his service, he could pay for four years at Columbia in full.  I have the grades and I’ve been accepted into almost all the Ivy Leagues, but I have my sights set on Empire State.”

That gets a laugh out of me.  I like the kid’s uncle already and never even met the man!  “Empire State?  Wow, your aunt and uncle must be really proud.”

Peter’s cheeks flush as he averts his eyes.  “Uh, yeah,” he agrees. 

Natasha elbows him playfully.  “Oh, Peter, you can brag once in a while.”

His only response is another sheepish nod, which only provokes another smile out of me.  All the while, Wanda seems determined to avoid direct eye contact with Peter.  My intuition tells me that she hasn’t had many crushes in her life.  From what she has told me before, it sounded like she wasn’t really given the opportunity to have a normal childhood.

I pity her.

I’m pulled out of my thoughts as someone’s phone vibrates.  It’s Peter’s. He unlocks it and checks his messages.

“Oh, look at that,” he marvels. 

“What is it, Pete?” asks Natasha. 

“Stark is having a pool party at his property upstate,” he replies.  “I’ve been invited.” 

What happens next is interesting.  Natasha’s eyes seem to turn into the color of evening grass as a very dark look passes over her face.  “He invited you, did he?” she asks.  “Peter, your acquaintance with him worries me.”

Peter meets her eyes.  He seems completely unaffected by her gaze.  “You worry too much; the guy put in a good word for me at Empire State.  I owe him.”

“I’m sorry, am I missing something here?” I ask, registering not only Natasha’s look, but also Wanda’s who seems to have forgotten all shy pretenses.  “We’re talking about Tony Stark here, right?”

“Yes,” reply Natasha and Wanda together. 

“Tony Stark and your mother have a really bad history together,” explains Natasha.  “Long story short, they had a disagreement about something and because of it, the hospital lost a significant amount of funding from Stark Industries.  As far as I know, the Dean of Medicine is on your mother’s side of the argument, but she’s lost a significant amount of respect due to the rumor mill.  And no, there wasn’t an affair, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

I carefully take in every word that she says.  I remember Tony Stark.  Stark Industries is part of what made me what I am, although they didn’t come up with the serum.  What could have caused a falling-out between him and my mother?

“You know what, how about we say yes to that invite?” I suggest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purposes of this story, the role that Howard Stark played in Steve's life has been given to Tony. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	6. Chapter 6

The party at Tony Stark’s upstate property was a week away, so there was some time to focus on other things.

Over the course of the week, I worked on reintegrating myself into society.  My brain still functions like a soldier.  I wake up well before dawn, I sleep with a knife under my pillow, and each day when I wake up I have to remind myself that I’m home.  I’m not in an environment where every day is a potential fight for survival.  The children here are most definitely not likely to be suicide bombers. 

That is perhaps the worst part of any soldier’s career.  At least it was the worst part of my career, anyway.  It was a horrible compromise and I lost so much sleep over it.  I tried to spare the lives of children if I could, but in the world of war, either you kill or be killed.  Still, as each day has passed, being at home, a pit has been forming in my stomach. 

I feel like a murderer for hire.  I was a murderer with a shield.  Two days into being home, my mother kindly suggested that I visit a VA seminar.  I don’t need a shrink.  Still, she gave me a contact number in case I changed my mind.  Some gentleman named Sam Wilson.  I told her that I would consider it.  Later, I unceremoniously dropped that slip of paper in my desk. 

I have considered returning to art school.  I’m sure that they would allow a former soldier return to school, wouldn’t they?  I have lost most inspiration for art.  I still get out my sketchbook, but that is about it.  I used to paint.  I loved to paint, but I’m not sure I can bring myself to do it again.  Every day this week, I have passed by the arts and crafts store I always bought my art supplies from, but I never walked in.  I’m sure that Mr. Tobias would be thrilled to see another frequent customer enter his shop.

I revisited a number of my old haunts.  It’s amazing how being in the war can change your perspective on everything.  I passed by a playground where Bucky and I used to play at.  My favorite coffee shop, ice cream shop, bowling alley, and even the art gallery where I occasionally presented my artwork…it’s all so different now. 

Outwardly, it’s mostly all the same, but it seems the war has a strange ability of changing your perspective on everything.  Some of the time, I just stood on the roof of my house and just watched the world below. Spending time in the war and coming back home, I can’t help wondering how many New Yorkers take what all they have for granted.  How many of them out there just take a moment once in a while to just step back and be grateful for what they have?

Spending time in a war-torn country, or looking for Hydra terrorists in Europe, really made me look back on how easy people have it in America.  Poverty is not unusual in America, but it’s not quite as widespread as where I was the last few years.  Usually, if I wasn’t on a combat mission, I was assisting with humanitarian outreach programs, bringing food, water, and medical supplies to people.  Of course, I had to keep my weapons close by, but some seem to forget that soldiers are a lot more than just men and women paid to shoot people.

There weren’t as many Hydra syndicates in the Middle East, but sometimes they managed to secure a foothold there. 

Being home, I have never been more grateful to be an American, to have a home and a family.  Yet at the same time, I feel lonelier than ever.  It might be a blessing for my mother, me being home alive, but I feel so guilty.  More than once, I have considered going to visit Bucky’s family, but Mom explicitly warned me that that was a bad idea. 

Wednesday, she got a surprise visit from Mrs. Barnes at the hospital.  All she would say was that Mrs. Barnes shared some very unrepeatable words about the fact that I came home and there wasn’t even a body for Mrs. Barnes and her family to bury.  That only worsened my guilt over being alive.  I made the mistake of voicing those sentiments and it earned me a slap in the face. 

“Don’t ever say that again, Steven Rogers,” my mother warned, holding up a finger.  “Do you understand me?” I’m much taller than her, but I might as well be an ant under the height of her authority.  The only thing I could do was answer her with a yes.

What made the encounter extremely embarrassing was that Natasha and Wanda were there to witness it.  I think that Mom did that on purpose.

There is another thing:  my mother’s tenants.

When asked about it, Mom told me that when she decided she was leasing out the two spare bedrooms, she was very nervous.  I do wonder if maybe she just wanted to feel like the house wasn’t so empty without me around.

It was a long process for her, researching landlord tenant laws and then posting notices that she was leasing out the rooms.  Living space is always highly competitive in New York City, so when yet another option pops up on the radar offering a reasonable rent payment, of course people are going to come calling.  Mom was surprised by the number of people answered the advertisement.  Over a hundred people answered the call, hoping to be given one of the rooms.  Given her commitments as a doctor of medicine, she couldn’t get through all the interviews as quickly as she would have liked. 

It took her nearly a month to get through all the interviews.  Some people she genuinely liked, others not quite as much.  I no longer have asthma, but she wasn’t going to have smokers in the house unless they agreed to do it outside.  She met Natasha before she met Wanda.  In fact, Natasha and Wanda were already acquainted, so that saved Mom the hassle of dealing with tenants who didn’t know each other, or worse not get along.

Natasha earned her place in my house in a clever way, I have to admit.  She had already piqued my mother’s interest with some of the things she had to say about herself.  She speaks English, Russian, Latin (who the hell _speaks_ Latin?), French, and Italian.  On top of teaching ballet, she was once a prima ballerina, having performed at the Bolshoi Theatre in Moscow.

What ultimately led to my mother giving her the room was her offering to cook something for her.  So the Russian girl bribed my mother with food.  Either she was really desperate for the living space or she was very confident.  She made my mother beef stroganoff using an “un-American” method.  I can respect that.  There are far too many ethnic foods that are deviated to fit American likings.  How many Chinese restaurants actually serve Chinese food?

It wasn’t long before I found out for myself that Natasha is in fact a great cook.  She doesn’t limit herself to Russian recipes; she only makes them once a week.  Tuesday she made chicken pelmeni.  I thought it was tortellini and used the term when commenting on how delicious they were.  Natasha seemed very offended by my honest mistake. 

“Tortellini is an Italian recipe,” she informed me coldly.  “This is pelmeni.”  She didn’t even offer me any dessert.  She did however offer plenty to Peter Parker.

The kid seems to come and go as he pleases.  He hasn’t visited every day, but it seems that he doesn’t need to wait for my mother’s permission to come over.  Technically, it’s not up to her since he is Natasha’s guest.  They seem quite close.  I’ve seen them playing videogames together or just simply hanging out.  They even converse in Russian with each other!  It seems that Natasha is more than willing to teach her native tongue to anyone who is patient enough. 

Peter still seems to be in the process of learning it as I’ve noticed Natasha pausing a few times to patiently correct him in Russian. 

Out of respect for their privacy, I haven’t been in anybody’s rooms, but from what I gather, they have been decorated to the point that they could be considered studio apartments.  Small ones, but Natasha and Wanda both have their own microwaves and mini-refrigerators in their rooms.

Even so, the whole house is up for their use.  One thing I quickly discovered in the basement in its own corner in the dining room closest to the study (which Mom has always used as a home office) is a grand piano.  It was the first thing that caught my eye on Sunday when Mom had me go downstairs to set the table. 

A black Steinway grand piano with the lid opened halfway.  It’s a gorgeous instrument, dusted and polished to the point that I could see my reflection in the finish.  Not long after, I discovered who its primary user was. 

Natasha is not only a ballerina, she is also a musician.  Yet since I have been home, she has not touched it.  What is her skill at the piano like?  Are her skills even limited to the piano?  There is just so much about her and I find myself wanting to know more. 

Then there is Wanda.  She seems somewhat more reserved.  Outside of the people in my house, I haven’t seen her interact with many people.  I have gone by the Chipotle she works at.  She’s very polite to customers, even the ones who are quite rude.

Mom and Natasha tell me that at least a few times a week, they go visit, while not necessarily buy burritos all the time.  Sometimes they come by with meals in case Wanda forgot to pack one.  Since none of us are family, we don’t get to share her employee discount.  That’s okay.  I’m willing to pay full price for a good burrito. 

One thing I have noticed while I was there is that a number of men occasionally make inappropriate moves on her.  She’s a pretty girl, but she has a job to do.  Even some of her own coworkers can’t seem to help flirting with her.  Those people however, it seems a little more innocent as I saw her flirting right back with them. 

One man who seemed particularly aggressive with his flirting was some guy named Vision.  Well, technically, his name is Vincent, but for somehow, someway he got the nickname Vision.  The man is considerably older than her, yet from what I could see he has a particular interest in Wanda.  She clearly didn’t care for his advances. 

I had to keep from making a scene. 

When she is not working however, she is somehow more of a mystery than Natasha.  Honestly, I think that Natasha is a more complicated woman than her.  Wanda just seems to be less open, much quieter.

In fact, the vibe I’m getting from Natasha is that she is the kind of woman who only shows people what she wants to show them.  It could be that she appears to be a friendly person because that is want she wants people to see.  If she wanted to appear otherwise, I’m quite sure that I would see a completely different person. 

All of this and I’m sure I have only barely scratched the surface with both of these young women.  As much as I could, I have been keeping to myself over the course of the week, doing my best to stay out of everyone’s way.  It’s no easy task, especially when I share a bathroom with Natasha.  As Mom has reminded me, I can’t keep to myself all the time.  Eventually, I will have to be willing to interact with everyone. 

It might be the only thing that I know I can do.  I don’t know no what I am doing anymore.  My brain still functions like a soldier waiting for and giving orders, or thinking I need to be ready for combat at all times.  I’m not in a war zone.  I’m home.  The place besides my own bedroom where I used to find the most joy is also the one place I can’t bring myself to enter anymore. 

The fifth bedroom, the one I used to use as an art studio used to be where I would let my imagination run wild.  It was my escape, my safe haven from the hardships of life.  Now I worry what I will feel if I were to go into that room on the third floor again.  Could it be that I am actually afraid of the potential joy I will feel?

I could take a look at the job market.  Perhaps I could finally take up Mom’s advice towards entering medical school.  I certainly have the grades.  If not that, I ought to do something to make use of my skills as an artist.  Mom has never discouraged my art.  In fact, she has all but encouraged it.  The day that I got my acceptance letter to art school was one of the happiest I had ever seen her. 

It wasn’t until Friday that I finally decided to do something about art.  I was explicit on my desire to not have a “welcome home” party, but still one morning, I found a brand-new set of charcoals, colored pencils, and kneaded eraser all on top of a large sketchbook.  There was a little note on top of it all and it said,

_I know you didn’t want a party, but I still thought that you would need something to let that beautiful imagination of yours run wild._

_\--Mom_  

I took all of it back to my room before anyone could see it.

I couldn’t stop myself from opening that sketchbook anymore.  I woke up early and started drawing.  I opened my new charcoals first.  I didn’t even know what I would draw yet.  Instead, I just started drawing with no clear idea of what it would turn out to be. 

An hour has passed and I set the charcoal down.  Turns out I ended up drawing a depiction of my living room.  There is a large slash going diagonally through the page.  The upper portion shows what I remembered the living room looking like before I left for the war.  The lower portion shows how much it has changed.  Like the actual room, it is much the same.  The same bookshelves, couches, and coffee table, but what’s different is the large TV set and the new occupants.  I wonder if Natasha and Wanda would be flattered with my depictions of them. 

The depictions are not at all crude, I would readily say.  They aren’t photographs, but I do have a photographic memory.  Natasha lays on couch with her feet propped up on a pillow and a book in her hands with her hair splayed in a halo around her head which is resting on another pillow.  Wanda is on the opposite couch watching something on the TV with a bowl of popcorn in her lap.  I didn’t add anyone else to the drawing. 

It didn’t seem necessary as I was focusing on the changes in my world. 

Then I hear a knock on the door.  I close my sketchbook and look up.  “It’s open,” I say.

The door flies open and I see Natasha.  She’s dressed in a pair of revealing shorts, a pair of flip-flops and a white tank top over a black one-piece swimsuit.  She looks ready for a pool party.

“Are you sleeping in your bed now?” she asks. 

“Working on it,” I admit.  “I still feel like I’m lying on a marshmallow.”

She smiles understandingly.  “I have to go pick up Peter in Queens, so I’ll see you and Wanda at Stark’s.”

I raise an eyebrow.  “You have a car?”

She mimics my raised eyebrow.  “Some people in New York actually drive.”

“How come I haven’t seen you driving around?” I ask reasonably.

Natasha considers that for a minute.  “I don’t need to drive everywhere I go.  I don’t see you driving your motorcycle around all the time.”

I smirk.  “Touché.”

“And don’t you dare take Wanda on that bike of yours,” she warns as she turns to leave.  She disappears before I can say another word.  After what feels like several minutes of just sitting there staring at my open doorway, I finally force myself out of bed.  I stretch some feeling back into my legs as I stare out the window. 

“Looks like we’re seeing each other again, Mr. Stark,” I say.  I wonder if I can get him talking about what happened between him and my mother.  I haven’t even brought the matter up with Mom yet.  It might be interesting to hear his side of the story first.  Given the timeframe, why do I feel like that disagreement had something to do with me?

I guess I will just have to find out.

   


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, this chapter does contain a rape scene. Be advised.

If someone had told me when I started showing interest in enlisting in the army that I would be wearing all American colors, first as an icon selling the war and then on the battlefield, I probably would have picked a different career path.  Maybe I would have chosen medical school after all and right now I could be working on my doctorate.  Still, I enlisted, endured basic training and my bodily enhancement, and I fought in the war.  I fought and survived the war wearing red, white, and blue. 

I never thought the colors would actually grow on me.  Every so often, my eyes flick down to my swimsuit.  The most dominant color is blue, and on my left leg are transparent red flames outlined in white, followed by a few white stars polka-dotting the rest of the way up to the waistband and around the front.  Stylish and patriotic and I actually like it a bit. 

I mostly keep my mouth shut as I drive up to Tony Stark’s house in Mom’s Lexus GX.  All the while, Wanda also stays quiet, minus a few attempts at initiating conversation.  Maybe the two of us simply aren’t ready for one-on-one conversations yet. 

One thing that really caught my attention earlier was Natasha’s car.  She drives a seventh-generation black Corvette.  How did she afford that?  She must be a really well-paid ballet instructor if she can afford a sports car like that.  My gut tells me that she is hiding something.  What could she be doing that would require her to be dishonest about what she does for a living?  With her I honestly don’t know.

That frustrates me even more. 

Whatever the case is, I’m sure Peter Parker won’t mind riding in that car with his best friend one bit.  If he’s trying to make a good impression with his peers, particularly with girls his age, riding with Natasha wouldn’t look so bad.

If Natasha provoking a lot of head-scratching isn’t bad enough, there is also Tony Stark.  The man helped make me what I am today.  What could have happened for there to be any animosity between him and my mother?  I don’t know either Mom’s tenants enough to trust them very much, but I believe them when they tell me that she didn’t have an affair with Tony Stark. 

If Mom crawled into bed with that man, it would be with a syringe containing a deadly pathogen in her bra. 

What sort of disagreement did they have?  Assuming it was a proposition offered by Mr. Stark, what could have been so bad to have caused a disagreement?  Mr. Stark must have felt very affronted by the disagreement if it led to him dropping all funding for the hospital. It seems very extreme to me to make a whole hospital suffer because of some disagreement with only one of its top doctors.

In any case, it might be good for the both of us to keep our distances.  I can control my actions, but what will he do when he sees me?  My temper is not without its limits. 

I try to occupy my mind with other things.  I take in the countryside as I drive.  With the city now behind me, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say I was in a different country.  People can live their whole lives in New York City and not know of the lush landscape that lays only a few hours outsides its outermost limits. 

I know for a fact that Tony Stark has property in the city, but I also know that he has property in Malibu, California, as well as a Hudson River property about an hour outside the city.  The near flatness of the city has morphed into rolling, tree-covered hills.  Eventually, I abandon the freeway and stick to back roads.  Sometimes these roads take me within view of the Hudson. 

The river looks so much more beautiful without buildings all around.  The early afternoon sun actually glistens off the water.  The hills are a blanket of green in the summer heat.  If I brave a long enough glance away from the road in front of me, I can see the rustle of leaves.  It offers a lovely view of an otherwise unseen breeze.  In my experience, there are actually a very small number of things that are actually _invisible_.  All people need to do is take a few moments to really observe their surroundings.  With enough dissection, most things are very visible. 

When gazing up into the clouds, sometimes even the sunrays are visible.  Even without taking my eyes off the road, I can see faint yellow beams protruding from the sky.  Rays of light that provide heat and life to all things on the ground and they are right there for one to see. 

Unlike the freeway, these back roads actually move around with the land.  Instead of four or five lanes piercing through the land like the path of a scalpel, these roads rise, dip, curve, and twist with the land it goes through.  Occasionally, hills loom over me; farmland as far as the eye can see; forestry masking the hidden wonders of the Northeastern wilderness.  New York City could be considered something of a forest or jungle with hidden wonders beyond its columns of brick, glass, and steel, but it’s all manmade. 

Man did not make forests.  Man did not make rivers.  Man have _torn down_ forests, cleared lands to make room for civilization and paper.  Man might not have made rivers, but they have made canals and blocked off bodies of water to create reservoirs.  So some lakes are, in fact, manmade. 

For nature preservation activists, while I greatly respect them, sometimes I wonder how many of them actually take a moment to indulge in nature.  The bulk of my nature exposure was mostly deserts, and mountains in both the Middle East and the Swiss Alps.  Officially, I was never in Europe.  The governments didn’t want to admit to the world that some of the war managed to find its way into Europe.  HYDRA knew no continental borders. 

And besides, Johann Schmidt was German.  He had secured a foothold among Middle Eastern terrorists, but they were all means to an end. 

“Have you ever sketched any of this?”

And just like that, I am pulled from my imagination.  “What?” I ask stupidly.

“I’ve seen you drawing over the last few days,” Wanda explains.  “I was just wondering have you drawn any of this?” she gestures with her hands. 

She asked, so I suppose that it’s not really an overshare.  “Yes, I have.  But I really didn’t have many opportunities to get out of the city growing up.  My mother’s job has always kept her very busy and sometimes I was too sick to go on vacation with my best friend and his family.”

“Would you do it again?” asks Wanda.

“I haven’t decided,” I admit.

“How come?”

I let out a heavy sigh.  I hate to admit it, but I can’t keep to myself one hundred percent of the time.  Wanda is asking me a direct question.  My mother’s voice is screaming at me to remember my manners.  Wanda doesn’t seem like a tattletale, but how long can I keep myself bottled up before Mom intervenes?  Eventually she is going to find some way to get me to open up to someone.

“Drawing makes me sad,” I admit softly.

“Why?” asks Wanda.

Another heavy sigh.  “Let’s agree to one share at a time, Wanda.”

She doesn’t say another word for a few minutes.  “Okay.”

Eventually, I come up to Tony Stark’s property.  It’s hard to miss.  The tabloids are prone to exaggeration, but personally I would say that they put his arrogance rather mildly.  As I drive closer, his Hudson River property looms into view.  It’s large enough that if it weren’t for the photos I’ve seen in Mom’s biweekly _Forbes_ magazine. 

I remember the article describing it as one hundred acres, featuring not just a swimming pool, but also a lap pool, a gymnasium, and an eleven-bedroom house.  Tony Stark has no family, unless one counts the on-off again engagement to Pepper Potts.  I can’t really remember what their engagement status is anymore.  With so many rooms, is he trying to build something big enough for his ego, or is he preparing for a large family?  The property even has its own aircraft hangar.

As far as I know, Tony Stark is the only civilian with privately owned Quinjets.  I thought that those things were strictly for Special Forces units.  I remember clearly.  My friends and I didn’t like it when we ended up having to work with government agencies.  C.I.A. operatives were the worst, hampering our operations and reaping the rewards.  It’s hypocritical because technically my unit didn’t exist, but it’s hard to keep Captain America a secret. 

What use does Tony Stark have for a Quinjet?  Is it just a fancy edition to his private aircraft?

All these questions and I almost forget to stop at the gate.  I roll down my window and press the button on the callbox.

Soon an electric, British-sounding voice answers.  “State your business, sir,” it commands.

How do I answer that?  “Um, party?” I try.

“Do you have an invitation?”

Wanda hands me her phone with the invitation on the screen.  I mouth a “thank you” before putting the screen up to the camera. After a few seconds, a light turns green and the gate slides open.

“Welcome to the Stark residence, sir,” the voice welcomes, but I’m already driving into the property.  It’s not long before I start to see people.  Soon enough, a valet walks up to the car as I bring it to a stop.  I turn off the car and Wanda and I step out.  I toss the keys to the valet.

Wanda falls into step next to me and together we join the throng of people.  The driveway we took seemed like a bit of a wraparound drive.  It led us to the back of the property, so we don’t have much of a commute to where the actual party is.  This part of the property seems to be built on a terrace, leading down to the river. 

On one terrace is a swimming pool surrounded on all sides by people in various states of dress.  The last time I all saw tis many people in little more than swimwear, I was considerably smaller.

Even being two hundred pounds of muscle can’t save me from being self-conscious about my body.  I do take comfort in knowing the considerable unlikelihood of these people knowing me as Captain America.  All I need to do is try to use my name as little as possible. 

The next terrace down from the swimming pool is the one level with the river.  It’s also where there is a dock leading out into the river where there is an additional swimming area, which the guests seem to be finding less popular than the pool above them.  At the end of that dock is a large yacht with two helipads, on at the bow and the other towards the stern.  The dock also features a number of other, smaller boats.  Further out in the water, I see some speedboats with people in tow. 

I think I remember wanting to waterski once or twice in my youth.  I never got around to it.

My eyes return to the terrace and I see the raised platform where some disk jockey has an elaborate workstation set before him.  The stage also features a few other instruments, including a few guitars, a bass guitar, and a very complicated looking keyboard, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone around to use them.  I’d be more interested in hearing what those instruments have to offer than this strident nonsense that is being blasted through the speakers right now.

It sure is a good thing that this property is a little isolated.  I’m sure Mr. Stark’s neighbors wouldn’t appreciate all the noise from a party like this.  What would he do if a police officer showed at his doorstep responding to a noise complaint? 

I might have met the man a few times, but I don’t really know him.

“When did Natasha say she was going to arrive?” I ask, turning my attention towards Wanda. 

She looks up at me and then I realize I never gave her phone back to her.  It’s still in my hand in fact.  With a smirk she holds out her hand.  I drop the phone into it.  Immediately her thumbs start texting away.  When she stops, we wait for a response.

“Wanda, if she’s driving, I don’t think she…” that thought is cut off as Wanda’s message tone rings. 

“She says that they’re about twenty minutes out,” she informs me.  She looks up at me again.  “Have you considered that she might have had Peter do the texting for her?”

I think about that.  “Point taken,” I concede.  “So, what do you want to do now?”

A toothy grin spreads across the girl’s face.  “Now, I’m going to go have fun.”  She adjusts her sunglasses and prances off.  The crowd of people is so thick; it’s only seconds before she disappears into the crowd.  Despite the seemingly tight security measures around this property, it seems this occasion was more of an open invite.

I doubt that Tony Stark knows even half the people who are here.  I start walking around, minding my own business.  A few waitresses in matching halter tops, cutoff shorts, and sky-high stilettos which can’t be comfortable to wear pass by me.  If their goal was to be pleasing to the eye, they sure have succeeded.  Once in a while, I see some guy try to grope them.  Most just try to make flirty small talk or cast leering glances. 

I’m sure that some of these ladies enjoy the attention, but I wonder how many more of them don’t enjoy the extra attention.  Most likely, they do enjoy it if they were willing to be hired for this occasion.  I’m sure that Tony Stark pays handsomely for the services of his staff.

Attention is definitely not limited to the ladies, however.  I haven’t even taken off my T-shirt and I seem to be getting quite a few glances from the ladies.  A moment or two of walking and I some of them are glancing towards my chest.  That’s when I notice that I am wearing my dog tags outside of my shirt.  I guess I should take comfort in the fact that the glances towards my tags are more appreciative than anything else. 

I’m not in any mood to deal with people who feel they need to jeer and insult me for having served my country.  I’m proud to have served, but at what cost?  The world doesn’t seem any different than when I was taught to be a soldier.  Sometimes I wish I really did come home with a physical scar, if only so that I could have a visible reminder of the horrors I have faced. 

I continue to walk and eventually I find an empty lounge chair.  That’s when I finally take off my shirt.  If the ladies were staring at me before, they definitely are now as I pour a generous amount of sunblock onto my hand and start smearing it all over my exposed skin.  Really, I’m not sure if the sunblock is all that necessary.  The serum running through my body heals my wounds at quite a fast rate.  Still, I’d rather spare myself the pain of sunburn, no matter how fleeting it may be. 

I smear the protective cream on my arms, my chest, the back of my ears, my cheeks, and my legs.  All the while, I can’t help noticing the annoyingly hungry stares of some of the ladies around me.  I might as well be putting on an erotic dance for them. 

I pretend not to notice when one young lady walks up to me.  She’s a tall, confident-looking young woman with long blond hair, brown eyes, an aquiline nose, and prominent cheeks.  I have to say, she looks pretty.  I feel like I can say that without judging her by her cream-colored bikini and matching bra.  In fact, she looks _too_ pretty in a very weird way.  I feel so awful for thinking it, but she doesn’t seem like the kind of pretty that makes me want to sketch, or even paint, a portrait of her.  Why does she look vaguely familiar?

“Hi,” I say.  My voice sounds so awkward in my ears. 

 The young woman smiles brightly.  “I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”

I raise an eyebrow.  “We _are_ in New York State.”

The young woman considers that, looking thoughtful.  “I know a lot of people,” she states confidently.  “My name is Sharon,” she introduces, offering her hand.

“Steve,” I introduce back, grasping her hand.  “Sorry, my hands are covered in sunblock.”

Sharon chuckles.  “That’s okay,” she assures.  “Anyway, can I get you a drink?”

I blink rapidly for a moment.  “Um…”

“Steve Rogers, is that you?” I remember that voice.

Sharon and I turn towards the sound of the voice and my eyes fall on none other than Tony Stark.  I was never sure if I could take him seriously.  I stand above him by a few inches, but he doesn’t have a slight frame whatsoever.  A white, buttoned shirt is unbuttoned far enough to reveal a set of chiseled abs and he shoulders are very prominent beneath the fabric of his sleeves.  I have always wondered if he trims that stylish look into his beard himself, or if a barber does it for him.  His hair is a neat mixture of wave and fluff that I’m sure leaves plenty of women wanting to run their hands through it. 

If that’s no indicator, then the fact that he is flocked by a few women on each side of him should be.  I don’t even want to know what his plans are for the evening, or even just this afternoon. 

I sit upon my lounge chair, unmoving as he approaches me.  “Tony Stark,” I address politely.  I’m sure that it would be too forward to ask for his side of the story in regards to what caused the animosity between him and my mother.  Plus, this isn’t the time or place for it.

The billionaire closes the distance to me, but not before he essentially shoos away his feminine company.  They whine about having to, but by his body language, it looks like he promises to return his attention to them soon enough.  He will definitely be returning his attention to women when he is done with me, but I can’t bet on the likelihood of it being with the same women.

“So, the wannabe soldier returns,” he announces.  However, given the overlapping noise, I doubt anyone within earshot notices or even care.  I’m not sure how I feel about the “wannabe soldier” bit.  “When did you get back?”

“A week ago,” I reply.  “How are you, Stark?”

“I’m doing well, thank you,” replies Tony.  “Thank you for asking.  Enjoying the party?”

“I just got here.”

“Oh, well there’s dancing, swimming, and plenty of women to choose from, like this lady here.” Tony gestures to Sharon, who up until this point has remained silent.  He looks her up and down, stony-faced, but flirtatious all the same.  “And just who are you?”

“Not interested in you,” sneers Sharon.  She turns back to me.  “Well, I guess I’ll catch up with you later?”

“Sure,” I reply automatically.  “Can I get your number?”

“Do you have a pen?”

I reach into my bag and produce a pen.  I usually carry an expensive calligraphy pen that Bucky gave me when we exchanged gifts at our high school graduation.  A pool party seemed like the wrong place to have such a pen.  I hand the writing utensil to Sharon and she grabs my hand.  It almost tickles the way the tip of the pen scribbles across the inside of my wrist. 

“There you go,” she says, giving my wrist and pen back.  “I’ll catch you later, Steve.”  Sharon turns on her heel and disappears into the crowd. 

“Huh, looks like that serum turned you into human perfection in more ways than one,” marvels Tony. 

“Oh, you’d be surprised by how much I am still the same little guy I was _before_ the serum,” I counter. 

“I’m sure that’s true,” agrees Tony.  “So listen Steve, I had a proposition for…”

“Steve, there you are!” my head whips around and I’m face to face with Natasha.  She’s still wearing the same tank top and shorts over her black swimsuit, only now she has a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses.  Why did I think she seemed like kind of woman who wouldn’t wear them?  They are dorky in nature, yet they look so adorable on her.  Next to her is Peter wearing a black swimsuit with what look like black widow symbols all over it and a…Mets jersey. 

I raise my eyebrows at him.  “Mets, seriously?”

Peter shrugs.  “My first baseball game was a Mets game when I was eight; after that I’ve always bought Mets jerseys.”

Natasha gives him a playful nudge.  “You’re allowed to like whatever team you want,” she reminds him.  Her playfulness disappears as her eyes round on Tony.  She removes her sunglasses.  If I have seen cold fury in her eyes before, this is beyond worse.  I think I would be terrified if that gaze was directed at me.

“Romanov,” addresses Tony, sounding uncharacteristically cold.

“Stark,” Natasha addresses back.  “Hoping to catch your science project while his mother is not in the room?” 

I frown indignantly at the term.  She doesn’t say it with any mockery—at least none towards me, it sounds like—but I really don’t like that term.

Tony scoffs.  “And what’re you?” he challenges.  “His knight in shining leather?”

“I never said I was his ‘knight is shining leather’,” Natasha assures.  “Consider me the bitch who has no problem with giving this party’s host something to cry about.”

I see her eyes flick downward.  Following the path of her eyes, I see Tony adjust his shorts uncomfortably.  He smirks gently.  “Have you ever considered that Steve in entitled to his own opinion on the matter?” with that last question, he turns around and saunters off.

“Ow!” exclaims Natasha.  I turn to her.  She’s massaging her ribs lightly and giving Peter an indignant look.  “What was that for?”

“You’re not a bitch, Nat,” the kid admonishes.  “You’re a badass, but you’re not a bitch.”

Natasha smiles broadly as she wraps an arm around Peter’s shoulders, bringing him in for a kiss on the cheek.  His cheeks flush furiously at the gesture.  To me, the whole gesture is actually kind of sweet.

“And that’s why you’re my favorite boy in this whole country,” she tells him, planting another kiss on his cheek.  “Now go have fun.  Maybe you can go find Wanda,” she adds with a wink. 

“What about you?” he asks.

“I need a minute with Steve,” she replies simply, but firmly.

Peter rolls his eyes, but he wanders off eventually.  When he disappears, Natasha turns all her attention on me.

“I didn’t need you to come to my rescue, Romanov,” I tell her tersely.

“Of course you didn’t,” she agrees, but I do detect a bit of sarcasm.  “I just wanted an excuse to verbally castrate the man.”  She eyes my bottle of sunblock and a smirk spreads across her face.  “You need help with your back?”

The question catches me off-guard and I splutter.  That only seems to fuel her amusement.  She doesn’t even wait for my answer as she closes the distance between us and grabs the bottle from my hand.  “Seriously, you don’t have to…”

“Relax,” she cuts off, pouring a generous amount of the cream onto her hand.  She then sets the bottle down and rubs her hands together. “I don’t bite.”  Then her hands are on my back and any protest I might have had dies. 

Her hands are small, nimble, and achingly smooth as they glide across my back.  There’s nothing inherently sexual about what she is doing, but I can’t say the same for the steadily growing tightness in my groin.  She’s just smearing sunblock onto my back.  And seemingly as quickly as it began, it ends. 

“All done,” she announces, standing up straight. 

“Um, thanks.”  They seem to be the only words my brain can articulate. 

“No problem,” says Natasha.

“How do you say it in Russian?” I ask abruptly.

Natasha frowns.  “Excuse me?”

“How you say ‘thank you’ in Russian?” I repeat, more clearly.

It takes a second for the woman to recollect herself.  “Buy a dictionary,” is all she says before she turns away. 

“Wait, don’t you need some to put sunblock on _your_ back?” I ask frantically.

She stops and turns around slightly.  “Thank you, but Peter already took care of that.  He gives a good backrub.”  Without another word, she puts her heart-shaped sunglasses back on and disappears into the crowd, leaving me stunned silent.

***

About a half hour later, I’m bored.  Why am I bored?  Why should I be bored?  There seems to be a lot to do.  I didn’t even bring a sketchbook, so I have nothing to record my imagination with.  The people here seemed to have found new ways of entertaining themselves. 

On one table, someone seems to have set up a drinking game.  Once or twice, I turn my attention to that table.  Both parties look severely drunk; it’s only a matter of time before one or both of them collapse.  Either way, they are both killing their livers.  I could outdrink them all…until I have to use the bathroom, of course.

Peter and Natasha seem to be having a good time.  More than once, I’ve caught them dancing on the dance floor.  In fact, once or twice, a number of people cleared the floor to them space to dance.  Both of them are skilled dancers if I do say so myself.  Either they are mirroring each other’s movements in a sort of  _Footloose_ type dance or they are engaged in an energetic swing dance.  Watching the latter, it’s really entertaining see how Peter can literally sweep a woman off her feet.  

He’s sure to be an fun boyfriend if he got to that point with someone.

It’s not long before I discover that people have stopped using the pool for actual swimming. A number of people have fastened a slackline across the length of the pool.  Then, one by one, people have started taking turns trying to walk across it without falling into the pool.  Even I’m tempted to give it a try.  I even see some people exchanging cash, making bets on the chances of the contestants. 

When I see Natasha rise up to the challenge, I have to stop and just watch.  Up until this point, no one has succeeded.  Having shed her tank top and shorts, she is left in only her one-piece swimsuit.  She looks…how does she look?  Her waist is very narrow, but not in a skinny sort of sense. The top of her swimsuit seems to stretch under the pressure of her prominent breasts.  From the correct angle, the dip of her cleavage is quite visible, revealing the tamer portions of her breasts.  She also seems completely unconcerned with the number of catcalls she receives from men and women alike.  Scanning the crowd further, I notice Peter directing some very dark glances at some of the more prominent jeerers in the crowd. 

I’d hate to see what that kid would do to defend his best friend’s honor.

As Natasha starts to walk across the line with deadly ease, the whole crowd goes quiet. 

Her arms are out, balancing herself with utter skill, but she looks…bored.  It’s as if she thinks this is absolutely trivial.  Finally, she makes it to the other side of the line and the whole crowd erupts with cheers.  She pays them no heed as she turns back towards the pool and next comes Peter.  Like her, he has shed his outer clothes and is now only in his swimsuit.  He too walks across the line with considerable ease. 

Has he done ballet as well, or is he just a skilled acrobat? 

As much as I am enjoying the show, there is something else that it bothering me.  Where the hell is Wanda?  I haven’t seen her since we arrived.  I fish out my phone and try texting her.  Both she and Natasha exchanged numbers with me the first day we met, but up until this point, I haven’t had any reason to contact either of them.

She doesn’t answer the text I send.  I try again.  And again.  And again.  Fearing the worst, I begin to strategically scan the crowd.  I do a thorough walk around the crowd, which have all seemed to gather around the pool.  That’s when I try inside the house.  I soon run into Tony as he is leaving the house. 

“Stark, where are the bedrooms?” I ask.

Tony narrows his eyes.  “Rogers, you have a lady friend that you need some private time with?”

“Enough with the frat-boy humor; _where are the bedrooms_!” I demand.

Tony looks a little hurt by my outburst.  “Up the stairs, east wing,” he replies.

I don’t give it a second’s thought as I race to the nearest set of stairs.  As per his directions, I do find what look like the doors to bedrooms.  As I reach them, I slow down a bit more.  Here the music from outside is more muffled, so I am able to pick up what might be going on through the doors.  I hearing is a bit amplified along with the rest of my body, so that’s a plus. 

I try the first door.  I hear no sound.  I try the second, still no sound.  Third, fourth, fifth, sixth, is she even in a bedroom?  Finally I reach the seventh and I hear voices.  At least one of them doesn’t sound pleasant.  I ease the door open quietly and what I see horrifies me.

I see Wanda alright, but her clothes are missing.  On top of her, an equally naked man is trying to pry her legs open.  I don’t bother too much with how he looks, other than his powerfully built body and red hair.  There’s also a collapsible baton in one of his hands.  Wanda has obviously been giving him a hard time, because there are a few welts on her body. 

He raises the baton again.

“Oh, no you don’t,” I hiss.  I grab the nearest object I can find—a vase—and with a growl, I lunge for the man and smash it over his head.  The red-haired man looks taken aback, but otherwise unharmed.  Weird.  He twists around and faces me. 

“And just who are you?” the man sounds Russian.  There’s no resemblance, so there can’t be any relation to Natasha.

“I’m the guy who’s telling you to leave that girl alone,” I introduce coldly.

The red-haired man chuckles as he gets up off of Wanda and rises to his full height.  He stands maybe an inch or two taller than me.  “A chivalrous man, are you?  I have no quarrel with you, so why don’t you just go get yourself a shot of bourbon.  You really don’t want to make an enemy out of me.”  The man’s speech is slurred, obviously having had too many drinks himself.

“You’ve already made an enemy out of _me_ , comrade,” I sneer.  The man tries to throw a punch at me, but I easily dodge it.  He quickly rounds back and swipes the baton at me.  I block the blow and double back before he can ram his other fist into my gut.  The lunge causes him to lose his balance and I aim two kicks into his midsection before he can regain himself. 

Momentarily stunned, I grab the wrist with the baton in it and twist it violently behind his back, making him howl in pain.  The shock of the pain causes him to lose his grip on his baton.  It clatters to the ground.  We each face the open window.  “Tell me, my friend, can you fly?” I hiss into his ear. 

He says something in Russian, but I’m already charging him towards the balcony.  I release him and he begins to stumble.  Before he can regain his balance, he hits the low railing and tips right over.  There’s a short scream and a sudden…splash.  I walk towards the balcony and look down.  This bedroom faces the pool and the man fell into it.  He misses the slackline, but he startled whoever was on it. 

“I guess you can’t fly after all.” I turn away from the balcony and see Wanda huddled on the bed.  I rush towards her.  “Wanda?” I ask gently as I near her. 

She looks absolutely paralyzed.  Tentatively, I reach out and touch her shoulder.  She immediately squeals and starts thrashing around.  I grip both her shoulders and steady her. 

“Wanda, it’s me, it’s Steve!” I yell over her cries. I try a little softer.  “It’s Steve, your friend.” 

Her eyes seem to find me and she locks eyes with me for minute. 

“You’re okay,” I whisper softly.  “It’s just me.” 

Wanda’s lips tremble and she throws her arms around me, sobbing uncontrollably.  Vaguely, I realize our naked chests are pressed against each other, but I wrap my arms around her.  I let her sob for a few minutes.  Several minutes later it seems, the door is bursting open again and I hear a shriek.  I raise my head and it’s Natasha and Peter.  Peter averts his eyes, but Natasha is rushing towards us.

It doesn’t seem to take Natasha long to figure out what happened.  She seems too stunned to say a word.  I lock eyes with her and I can barely mask my fury.  Some party, this was, but I’m more concerned about Wanda to say anything along those lines. 

Peter seems to look around for Wanda’s clothes.  He soon finds them, but they are torn.  She has nothing to wear.  Tony might have something. 

“Let’s go home,” I suggest.  Silently, everyone agrees.   

    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for that everyone. I hope you enjoyed the chapter all the same. 
> 
> On a side note, one time I visited my older sister while she was in college and some kids in her dorm had fastened a slackline across the pool. If I didn't have a plane to catch, I would've taken up on their offer to give it a try.


	8. Chapter 8

The seven days following the party at Tony Stark’s upstate property must have been very hard for Wanda.  No, they _were_ hard for her.  The whole ride home, she did not speak or even cry.  She had every reason to cry.  She had been violated.  I would never ask if she was a virgin before the event, but sexual encounters are supposed to be wonderful experiences worthy of being cherished.  At least, I think so. 

I would never voice it, but that red-haired man seemed more interested in causing her harm than bringing about any sexual pleasure.  It may just be my intuition, but it seemed like he was a man with a score to settle.  Whoever it was to be settled with, Wanda must be involved.  Either she is involved, or she is a friend of whoever the red-haired man is angry with, or she is just a bystander caught in the crossfire. 

I know all about innocent bystanders.  It was always painful paperwork whenever innocent civilians were caught in a firefight.  We all tried very hard to remind each other why we were fighting when we killed people who weren’t soldiers or insurgents.

Sometimes, I still don’t remember why I fought.  When I think of it, all that comes to mind is that I was protecting my friends. 

When we got home, Mom was home early from the hospital.  She was in the process of making dinner.  Ever intuitive, she knew something was off when no one immediately greeted her upon walking through the door.  Then she saw that Wanda wasn’t wearing the clothes that she left the house in.  Seeing the silk shirt and jeans, Mom looked about ready to track down Tony Stark and beat him with a hot skillet. 

In Stark’s defense, when the situation was explained to him he personally gave us some clothes and ended the party.  Mom acknowledged that, but she still hates him for reasons that I have yet to find out. 

Natasha soon came home as well, having dropped Peter off in Queens.  I couldn’t even look at her.  Over dinner, I made a show of not even addressing her.  I might as well have pretended that she wasn’t at the table at all.  The only time that I acknowledged her even just a little was when she asked someone to pass the potatoes.  I was closest to her, so I passed them to her. 

Throughout dinner, it seemed everyone was trying to make things as easy as possible to Wanda.  She barely touched her food.  Mom is not her mother; she couldn’t make her eat.  Wanda didn’t even look any of us in the eye.  The way she was staring down at her empty plate, it seemed she might have been looking for nonexistent cracks in the fifty-year-old chinaware.

Eventually, she excused herself and went to bed without a bite.  Figuring she would eventually want something, we made a plate for her and put in the fridge.  Having noticed our lack of communication during our meal, Mom put Natasha and I on cleanup duty.  It seems to becoming a recurring thing in my life.  Mom can smell contention a mile away and one of her favorite punishments is interaction. 

Bucky was my best friend, but we still didn’t get along sometimes.  Mom would make us clean house together, or sign us up for community service.  That community service usually took the form of either lending a hand with cleanups at the hospital, or assisting in charity functions such as feeding the homeless. Usually, it worked.  We would do our time and go out for sodas later, or beers when we were old enough.

Natasha and I didn’t say a word to each other as we cleaned up from dinner.  However, we did seem have a silent understanding of how we did cleanups.  For the things that could not go in the dishwasher, I washed them and passed them on to Natasha for her to dry.  When we put away the leftovers, I had to be careful of which containers I used. 

Not long after I got home, I quickly discovered Mom’s method of separating leftovers from everyone’s personal leftovers.  The containers are color-coded.  Mom’s containers are purple, Natasha’s are black, Wanda’s are red, and mine are blue.  For leftovers from dinners that we have together, the leftovers go into clear containers.  Those leftovers, anyone could have as long as they asked in case someone else wanted them.

When we finished cleaning up from dinner, we went our separate ways without another word.  Mom tried to get me to talk, but I didn’t feel like saying anything.  I wasn’t in the mood.  It’s possible I was angry with her.  Not that I care all that much about Tony Stark’s feelings on the matter, but happened between him and my mother that is so bad that everyone refuses to talk about it?  On top of that, I’m angry about what happened to Wanda. 

It’s my fault.  I made the final decision to go to that stupid party. 

Over the course of the week, that anger just morphed into guilt.  Wanda insisted on going to work, but each time I went over just to observe, I watched her.  Her eyes were mostly downcast, hardly looking anyone in the eye.  She must have explained to her boss what happened to her to some degree, because I never saw her at the register, or serving food.  She just stayed in the back, focusing on cooking. 

At least it seems that her coworkers are kind to her.  Even the guys she works with, they quickly learned to keep her distance.  However, when one of them accidentally touched her, she freaked out and nearly swiped at him with a knife.  I’m glad her supervisor didn’t see that.  I’m sure that that would have merited a termination.  The least that she could do for her give her a leave of absence. 

Sadly, I don’t think that that kind of trauma could give her something like that.  She just had to power through it.  She shouldn’t have had to. 

Then maybe two days ago, she appeared at my doorway.  I opened my door and neither of us said a word for a minute or two.  Then she asked for the last thing I ever would have expected. 

She wanted me to draw something for her.  To say the request caught me off-guard would be a bit of an understatement.  Being asked to draw something for someone is not something unfamiliar to me.  Quite a few people have asked me to draw, or even paint, things for them.  Even though it embarrassed me horribly, Mom had no qualms bragging about my abilities. 

Before I ever even applied for art school, I had built myself a reputation within Brooklyn Heights and beyond.  Mostly at Mom’s nagging, at one point I even started charging people for the artwork they asked for.  At one point, I even painted a portrait for a debutante ball.  In fact, I think that that particular ball was hosted at one of Stark’s hotels.

Being asked to draw something for her should have been an honor, not an embarrassment.  I probably would have come off as a little sheepish either way, but it felt strange. 

I have spent so long being a soldier that I have forgotten what it feels like to be an artist.  Still, I asked Wanda what she would like me to draw.  She didn’t know.  She just wanted me to draw something beautiful.  Plus, she wasn’t sure if she could sit still enough for a portrait.  I assured her that there was no shame in that. 

I stayed up half the night drawing something for her.  It started off as a basic use of the vanishing point technique.  It’s a drawing, so unlike a painting, it starts off as front to back instead of the other way around.  I started off with a straight, wide path.  I filled that path with little cracks and nicks, as well as a few shadows.  I then added a rickety park bench that seemed all but neglected by the stench of passersby.  Upon that lonely park bench, I added a young woman with long hair and a hoodie with the hood drawn low over her face, so only her nose and some strands of her hair were visible.  In the distance, I added a few featureless people walking away as well as some in the grass around the path.  Directly in front of the lonely girl on the bench, I added a tall young man with a cappuccino cup in each hand.  One of those hands is reaching out to the young woman, as if offering the cappuccino to her. 

To match the shadows on the path, I added trees on both sides.  Their branches reach across the path, to the point that they seem conjoined like the holding of hands between friends.  It also serves as a natural tunnel that obscures the sky.  The trees themselves are a tangled mess.  Rather than the carefully trimmed and pruned trees along the paths of Central Park, these trees are wild and untamed with branches both alive and dead.  Some of the branches are partly ripped, dangling precariously along the path and beyond.  Some might call them poorly tended trees; I consider them to be a glimpse into the wild. 

Out in the wild, trees are not pruned or trimmed.  They don’t have caretakers and park rangers to keep them looking “nice.”  They grow and reach as far as they please with their many branches.  They are unhindered by the presence of humans, yet I depicted them with said humans on a manmade path. 

I meant it as a depiction of loneliness in the presence of wild freedom.  At least that is how Wanda perceived it when I presented it to her.  She saw the man offering the cappuccino as an offer of friendship, a gesture of kindness when no one else only walked away.  She then asked if the girl accepted the cappuccino. 

I told her that that’s for her to decide. 

After that, Wanda steadily started to return to a state of normalcy.  Well, as normal as she could.  There is no coming back from that ordeal, I’m sure.  Still, at least she has managed to say more than two words to anyone since I gave her that drawing.

Wanda must have told Natasha about that drawing I gave her because Natasha started smiling at me just a little more.  When I first came home, Natasha seemed to smile at me as a way of trying to appear friendly towards me.  Now there seems to be a small sense of praise coming from her.

Did I suddenly give her a reason to admire me?  If that is the case, why does that fill me with dread?

That question still bothers me as I look over a brochure Mom gave me a few hours ago.  She warned me quite sharply not to yell at her about it and it didn’t take long for me to find out why. 

The brochure is for a seminar at a VA hospital in Manhattan.  It’s headed by some gentleman named Sam Wilson.  It's that same seminar Mom told me about recently.  I don’t need to share war haunts with a group of strangers sitting in a circle.  The fact that Mom thinks I need group therapy is really hurtful.  She didn’t even ask me about it. 

What am I going to do with in a group therapy session?  I don’t need to talk about the horrors I faced, of the friends I’ve lost.  What good is it going to do?  It’s going to change anything.  I will hear the haunts that other veterans face, but what good is it going to do?  Whether they all like it or not, the horrors of war will always be with them and talking about them is not going to change a thing.

Still, I might as well visit a session, if only to prove to Mom that I made an effort.

I drop the brochure down on my desk. 

That’s when I start to hear something.  Unless my ears deceive me, it sounds distinctly like a piano.  Mom just had to buy that grand piano.  It seems that it is large enough that it can be heard even faintly throughout the house.  Natasha is playing her piano.  It’s ruining my peace of mind.  I rise from my chair and rush downstairs. 

No one else is home, so maybe I can confront her without being yelled at.  But as I reach the top of the last flight of stairs, I find myself slowing down my approach.  Not only do I hear the piano, I also hear…singing.  Quietly, I descend the stairs.  The front of piano is faced towards the stairs, so Natasha’s back is turned to me.

Just as I reach the landing, the song breaks out into its chorus. 

 _Now that we're here,_  
_It's so far away_  
_All the struggle we thought was in vain_  
_All in the mistakes,_  
_One life contained_  
_They all finally start to go away_  
_Now that we're here it's so far away_  
_And I feel like I can face the day, and I can forgive_  
_And I'm not ashamed to be the person that I am today_

I know the song, but I can’t remember the title of it.  What I do know that is that the original song featured no piano part.  So this must be a complete cover.  Whether Natasha figured it out by ear or downloaded it from somewhere, I have no clue.  What I do know is that she isn’t reading off of any sheet music. 

Her voice is…beautiful.  It’s not a very high range.  It complements the normal huskiness of her voice.  I wouldn’t call it a limited range either.  There simply isn’t any blandness in her voice, nor does it feel like I am listening to a different person altogether.  If anything, I feel like I’m hearing an extension of a voice that I’ve already grown accustomed to. 

I know nothing about music theory or singing, so I couldn’t possibly say what her vocal range is. 

As for the song itself, it speaks to me for some reason.  Sometimes, I do feel far away.  I’m home, but am I really?  Home doesn’t feel the way that it used to and I don’t think that it’s because Mom is leasing out the rooms.

A part of me died the first time I fired a weapon on a group of enemies.  Actually, I would say that I a part of me died the first time I picked up my vibranium shield.  I keep that shield locked away in a trunk.  Once or twice, I have considered selling it.  I could make some decent money off of it.  Vibranium is very expensive.  The fact that I keep it is mostly due to a promise to Peggy.  Technically, I didn’t purchase it.  Nor does it belong to the government or taxpayers.  It was made by Stark Industries, a private contractor. 

I could say that it was given to me as a gift.

Before I know it the song ends and Natasha takes a deep breath, before closing the lid to the keys.  Finally she turns around…and yelps.  The yelp causes me to yelp as well.  She trips over one of the legs of the piano bench, but I rush over to catch her before she falls. 

She smirks up at me from her position halfway to the ground.  “My hero,” she quips. 

I roll my eyes and let her drop to the ground.  She lands on the hardwood with another yelp. 

“My _rude_ hero,” I hear her mutter as she gets back on her feet.  “How long were you standing there anyway?”

“Enough that I can say you’re a gorgeous singer,” I respond, smiling gently.

I can tell she wasn’t expecting the compliment.  Her prominent cheeks become as red as her hair and it’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.  How could I have not noticed that before?  “There are singers that have wider ranges than I do.”

I raise an eyebrow.  “That’s like me saying that some people can do more with charcoals and paintbrushes than I can.  And you know what my best friend, Bucky would say?”

Natasha crosses her arms.  “What?”

“He would tell me to ‘shut up and quit selling yourself short’,” I reply.  I then gape.

“What’s the matter?”

I shake my head, fighting the building emotion.  “I…I’ve never told anybody that before.”  I never even thought that I would say Bucky’s name again so soon.  I lose the battle with my emotions as I feel tears welling up in my eyes.  I turn away, too embarrassed to let someone who I still consider a stranger to see me like this.

I hear tapping and I turn around slightly.  Natasha has taken a seat on the piano bench and is patting the space next to her. Not seeing any other option, I go to sit next to her.  “Was Bucky that best friend you lost in the war?” she asks. 

I nod wordlessly, feeling more tears stream down my face. 

“I’ve lost friends before,” reveals Natasha. 

I stare at her.

“When I was a kid, I lost a very close friend of mine,” she explains.  “We went to school together.  There was a…accident and she died.  Her name was Tatiana.”

“How long did it take you to get over it?” I ask.

Natasha smiles sadly.  “Sometimes I’m still not over it.  However, eventually I started to realize that the more I let it control my life, the more I feel like I’m being eaten up and spit back out over and over again.”  She looks me directly in the eye.  “I don’t like that feeling.  Life is too short and I rather fill it with more happy memories than sad ones.  I’m not saying there should be a timetable on when you should stop feeling sad about your loss.  All I’m saying is that I’m sure that there are plenty more opportunities for you to be happy again.” 

A wave of silence passes between us as I let those words sink in.  She seems very wise, possibly too wise. How old is she anyway?  She doesn’t look much younger than me.

“Who was that man at Stark’s party?” I ask before I can stop myself.  “It seemed like you knew him.  And please don’t lie.”

Natasha’s face falls serious.  “Way to make a conversation go from bittersweet to bleak, Rogers.”  She sighs heavily and tears her eyes away from me.  “His name is Alexei,” she eventually responds, though her voice sounds far away.  “He’s my ex-husband.”

I narrow my eyes.  “Ex-husband?” I repeat.  “Is that a common occurrence for you?  Do your exes tend to go around beating and sexually assaulting young girls?” 

Natasha scowls at me.  “I am this close to slapping you, Rogers,” she emphasizes, holding her thumb and forefinger less than an inch apart.  “And no, it is not.  I did break off my marriage to Alexei because about a year into our marriage, he started getting violent temper tantrums.  He was dishonorably discharged from the Russian Special Forces, losing his pilot’s license and stripped of all honors.  As more and more job interviews ended in rejections, the worse his drinking problem became.  Along with his drinking, his temper worsened. 

“I was lucky if I didn’t get caught in the crossfire.  Once or twice, I almost committed suicide.  Eventually, I worked up the courage to tell him I was leaving him.  His response was…surprisingly docile.  He agreed to sign the divorce papers, telling me that he was sorry that he couldn’t make our marriage work.  About a month after our divorce, he started sending me angry emails filled with threats.  It’s part of the reason I came to the States. 

“I had no idea that he would follow me to America.  Hell I have no idea how he found out that I was in America.  Hurting Wanda was just the tip of the iceberg.  It’s what he does.  He hurts people I care about until I surrender myself to him.”

I listen to her very carefully.  I don’t know if she was trying to hide it, but I can hear the fear in her voice.  I also hear a sense of despair. 

She faces away from me again.  “I thought I’d be safe here, but my past always seems to have a way of catching up to me.”

Not knowing what else to do, I lay a hand on her shoulder.  “He won’t hurt you, Romanov,” I promise.  “If it comes to it, we can file a restraining order.  Hell, we could even report to Immigration.  We could have him deported. 

Natasha scoffs lightly.  “I can fight my own battles.  I don’t need you getting involved any more than you already have.  The fact that you threw him off a balcony will be enough to want retribution.  Don’t make things worse for yourself, for your mother.  She’s got enough on her plate.”

I raise an eyebrow.  “What do you mean by that?”

“What do I mean by what?”

“What do you mean that my mother has enough on her plate?” I clarify.  “Is everything okay with her?”

For the first time, I see a slight bit of hesitation from the redhead.  It’s gone almost as quickly as it comes. “Everything’s fine,” she assures.  “She’s just very busy and the fact that your home is making things very complicated for her.  You remember that disagreement I told you about between her and Stark?” I nod.  “Well, it seems to have reignited.”

“I still don’t know what that argument is about,” I inform her bitterly.

“Have you asked her about it?” Natasha reasons. 

I think about that.  “Well, no.”

“Don’t worry about it too hard,” she encourages.  “Let’s get through your birthday first.”  She smiles widely.  “Are you excited?”

I roll my eyes again.  “Just another year older, really.”

Natasha laughs brightly.  The way her cheeks light up, the flash of her teeth, and subtle squint of her eyes…it’s all intoxicating.  “Your mother said you say something like that.  You’re quite predictable.”

I frown a bit.  “I don’t know if that’s a compliment.”

“Oh, it is, Rogers, it is.”

“And you are a talented musician and dancer if the way you danced with that kid, Peter, is any indication,” I fire back.  I smile victoriously as her laugh stops abruptly, her blush returning. 

“Thanks,” she says softly.  She checks her watch.  “Look at the time; I have to get to my ballet class.”  She rises from the bench.  She heads towards the stairs, but stops just before she takes the first step.  “Oh, and Rogers…?”

“Yeah?” I respond. 

“Call me Natasha.”

“In that case, call me Steve.”


	9. Chapter 9

June quickly drew to a close and with it my birthday.  Throughout my life, my birthday has been interesting.  I believe there was a time, when I was extremely young the Fourth of July was celebrating _me_ not the founding of the United States.  I remember at one point, I thought that the movie _Independence Day_ served as a warning as to what would happen to me if I misbehaved. 

So far, there have been no alien invasions in my life. 

The influx of tourists coming to town just for the parade has always astonished me.  For the hotel businesses, it’s a huge payday.  From high-class hotels to inexpensive motels and even people visiting family, this is a good weekend for New York’s tourism economy.  Growing up one of the things I grew accustomed to was the occasional tourist asking me how to get to certain places.  Bucky was always there to help me if it was a particularly attractive young woman asking the question.

I was capable of giving helpful tips, shortcuts that would lead to tourists’ destinations a little quicker than if they took a conventional path.  More often than not, Bucky would end up telling me that some young lady was trying to flirt with me all along.  Even when I was small and frail, sometimes a girl found me desirable.  Still, usually, I played third wheel to Bucky who always tried his best to set me up with women.

On my birthdays, there was a time when he started taking me places like Coney Island where I would have to interact with girls.  I quickly grew very cynical in regards to finding a woman who would actually talk to me.  I was more than just a ninety-five-pound asthmatic, wasn’t I?  Bucky was confident though.  He had this annoying faith that there was a woman out there for me.  Whether it was my sixteenth birthday or my thirtieth, Bucky at one point actually said that he wouldn’t rest until I had myself a girlfriend.

Sadly, he died before he could make good on that promise.  Some of my old birthday traditions seem to be so far away now.  This birthday will probably be the first without Bucky or any of his family.  There was a time when I found the crowds of the Fourth of July parade, or beach parties at Coney Island enjoyable, but not anymore. 

Bad things can happen in crowds.  A man, woman, or even a child could be waiting to set off a bunch of explosives strapped to their bodies.  A sniper could be hiding somewhere waiting for the opportune moment to take out a few people.  I’m well aware that that is likely not going to happen here at home, but how long will it be before my brain stops thinking that I’m at war?  How long before I quit asking myself that question.

I really don’t want the therapy, but maybe I should give visiting that VA seminar a shot.  I might not be ready to really talk about my woes, but it might be good to at least sit and listen.  I can be a good listener.  I’m an artist; sometimes I have to listen as well as see.  Sometimes all I can do is listen. 

In the days leading up to my birthday, everyone bought something not just for my birthday, but also for Fourth of July. Mom seemed particularly happy to be given the day off for that day.  Medicine does not rest.  One tradition that I don’t think will ever die is Mom firing up the grill out back.  She had me go out and buy steaks and corn on the cob.  I always loved grilled corn on the cob.  She also had me switch out the propane tanks for the thing.  The only real changes to the patio in our backyard is the new glass table and cushioned lawn chairs.  It’s about time Mom replaced the old patio furniture.  I think the new furniture goes well with the surrounding garden. 

I’m not sure why didn’t all just shop together, but Natasha and Wanda when out and bought Fourth of July stuff.  This isn’t a good place to set off fireworks, but sparklers can be fun as long as we remember to keep away from the plants.  However, when I saw their grocery bags, it looked like they bought a bit more than just party stuff.  Some of which looked like stuff to bake a cake with.  I asked what kind of cake they were making, but Wanda told me that she wasn’t going to spoil the surprise.  Even if I looked through all the ingredients, I would still be guessing what they were making.  Still, I like that they were choosing to bake me a cake from scratch. 

Cake mixes can be delicious, but sometimes the effort put into a homemade cake makes it more special.  I did see a bottle of vodka and I’m still wondering if any of it will end up in the cake’s recipe.  I’m not sure if there was a big presence of vodka in the liquor cabinet before I left for the war.  As Natasha coolly told me, some clichés are true.  Russians like their vodka.  Despite that statement, I don’t think I have actually seen her drink the stuff.  I have only seen her use it in cooking and baking.  The alcohol is cooked away, but it does add an interesting texture to the recipes she adds it to.  

To my amusement as my as my annoyance, everyone went to great lengths to keep me from discovering presents that I might be getting.  You can never be too old for presents, can you?  Maybe you can be too old for toys, but not presents altogether.

A couple of days before my birthday, I started getting birthday cards in the mail.  Some of them were from old friends I grew up with; some were from some of my friends in the army.  One card was signed by all of my buddies from the Howling Commandos.  We were a colorful team.  Dum Dum Dugan, Junior Juniper, even Jacques Dernier from French Special Ops, Happy Sam…yes, we were a great team.  The card even came with a bottle of ten-year-old bourbon from Dum Dum.  I’m going to have to ask him how managed to part from such a bottle. 

Mom said that the liquor might come in handy, but neither of us are really bourbon drinkers.

It would have been nice if Bucky’s name was on that card as well, but it was still a great card.

For some reason, Mom seemed very eager to make sure she was the one to grab the mail.  Each day, I watched as she carefully sifted through all the mail.  Was she monitoring it?  What is she worried she will find?

My answer came on the day right before my birthday.  I beat Mom to the mail and after flipping through the mail, I found a package addressed to me with a card taped to the front.  I didn’t even bother taking the box upstairs so that I could open it in private.  I first opened the card.  In slanted cursive handwriting I recognized it read.

_Genesis 4:10_

_Happy Birthday, Benedict Arnold_

_Sooner or later you too will know what it’s like to lose someone_

I remember my bible from attending Sunday mass with Bucky and his family.  “And he said, What hast thou done?” I recited quietly.  “The voice of thy brother’s blood crieth unto me from the ground.”  I opened the box and found an assortment of black roses.  I lifted one from the box and examined thoughtfully.  That’s when Mom walked in.  She was soon followed by Natasha and Wanda.

“I guess I betrayed Bucky’s family,” I joked humorlessly.  That little bit of ill humor was the final straw for Mom.  But what was with that last sentence?  Was she threatening me? 

“I’m calling Becca,” she growled.  She snatched up the kitchen phone and began dialing furiously.  Before she clicked _send_ though, she locked me in a dangerous stare.  “You betrayed no one, Steven!” she shouted at me.  “James was your brother and I want you to look me in the eye right now and tell me, did you or did you not protect him to the best of your ability?”

I swallowed hard.  “We had each other’s backs until the very end,” I reply truthfully.

“Then don’t you dare let his whiskey-soaked bitch of a mother tell you different, or I will shove your pastel charcoals up your nose, do you understand me?” demanded my mother. 

I nodded fearfully.  “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good!” then Mom pressed send.  She took the phone out to the patio with her, but we could still hear her screaming into the phone.  Mrs. Barnes should have counted herself lucky that Mom didn’t storm over to her house and, well beat the shit out of her. 

I turned back to the box of roses.  That’s when Wanda showed up.  She put the lid back on the box.  “How about we throw these out?” she suggested.

I nodded quietly.  I didn’t show it, but I did notice her improving lately.  Maybe it’s just that she feels safe in this house, but at least at home, she seems to be doing better since what happened at Stark’s house.  Mom explained to me that she might also just feel safe around _me_.  I saved her before things got really serious, so I guess that’s a good thing, isn’t it?

Outside the house however, she is still very quiet.  At least she seems to be freaking out less when men touch her.  She is even looking them in the eye more.  Still, I’m not sure what might happen if we end up running into Alexei again.   

“I got a better idea,” spoke up Natasha.  We both turned to her. 

“And what is that?” I asked, crossing my arms. 

She smiled up at me darkly.  “Tomorrow’s the Fourth, isn’t it?” she reminded me.  “We don’t have fireworks, but those roses would make for a good fire.  What do you say, Steve?”

I thought about it for a moment.  Then I said, “Sounds great.”

The rest of that day blew over smoother than I thought it would.  Mom must have spent ten minutes just shouting at Mrs. Barnes over the phone.  Mrs. Barnes must have had plenty to say herself if she didn’t just hang up immediately.  The last time I remember the two of them getting into a shouting match was when I was ten years old and I had an asthma attack riding the Cyclone at Coney Island.  It was so bad, I had to be hospitalized.  Mom was angry at Mrs. Barnes for letting me go on that wooden rollercoaster in the first place.  Technically she didn’t.  Bucky snuck me onto the ride with him, wanting me to actually live a little.

Despite the hospitalization, I actually had a fun time.  Privately, we talked about visiting places with more options in terms of rides.  We talked about driving to places like Darien Lake, or Cedar Point if we really wanted to go on a road trip.  It was fun talking about going on crazy adventures like that. 

Natasha asked if she could invite her friend Peter Parker over for my birthday and the Fourth of July celebration.  There’s no harm in that, is there?  I did appreciate Natasha asking my permission.  Also, I thought it would be a good opportunity for Wanda to interact with him.

I wonder if my compliment about her as a singer had a positive effect on Natasha.  Later that evening, I heard her playing the piano again.  This time she was playing “Free Bird” by Lynyrd Skynyrd.  I must have looked like an idiot standing by the stairs as her fingers moved furiously all over the keys.  I seriously wanted to know if she played anything else.  I didn’t even muster the effort to ask. 

I was too scared she would refuse to answer. 

I went to bed that night.  I gave using my actual bed another try.  It still feels strange, but this time it wasn’t in an uncomfortable sense.  I don’t want to sleep on the floor for the rest of my life.  I spent hours trying to fall asleep, changing position after position trying to get comfortable.  Eventually, I heard something later that night. 

I got up to get a cup of water from the bathroom.  On the way, I ran into Natasha. She was wearing a revealing tank top and some shorts that covers very little of her legs. 

I told her that I was trying to get back into the habit of using a bed.  She jokingly suggested I give sleep therapy a shot.  I’m already giving group counsel some consideration.  I don’t need to add sleep therapy to the mix.

She smiled lightly and suggested I try counting down from a high number.  I was doubtful, but when I went back to bed I gave it a try.  I started at one thousand.  I think I made it to…seven hundred and fifty before I actually dosed off.

I slept comfortably, but dreamlessly.  I actually appreciated that dreamless sleep.  It was better than the constant nightmares and revisits to the war.

I eventually wake up to the sun in my face.  I check my watch and it’s nearly eleven in the morning.  I’m really tired of sleeping in late.  At least I managed to sleep in my bed for once.  I get up and immediately head downstairs.

I see Natasha and Wanda working in the kitchen.  From the looks of it, it seems they are baking. 

“…no I’m not going to talk to him,” protests Wanda. 

“Well he’s coming here within the hour with his aunt and uncle,” Natasha reminds her.  “What’re you going to do—not speak at all or only speak when Peter’s not in the room?” 

Wanda opens her mouth, but falters.  She grumbles and runs a hand through her loose bun.  Some loose tendrils of her hair frame her face and I think Peter, or any guy her age would have to be crazy not to notice how attractive she is.  She’s also wearing a tank top and a pair of jeans with holes at the knees.  The hand she ran through her hair must have been covered in flour, because now her hair has specks of flour in it. 

A laugh escapes my throat before I can stop myself.  Both women turn and we all lock eyes. 

They speak up at the same time.  Wanda says, “Morning.”  Natasha says, “Happy birthday.”

Natasha looks about as comical at Wanda does.  Her hair is pulled back as well, but just in a loose ponytail.  It might have escaped the flour and sugar, but there are streaks of it in her face.  There’s even a streak of chocolate across her cheek. 

 _Good heavens, do these girls know how to bake without making a mess?_ I ask myself silently.  “Having fun, you two?”

They exchange an awkward glance, looking each other over.  They seem to notice how ridiculous they both look.  Natasha is the one who breaks the silence.  “We’re just baking your birthday cake,” she explains, smiling unsteadily. 

“Mm, what kind?” I ask, unable to contain my eagerness.

“Chocolate peanut butter,” replies Wanda.  “Your mom said you loved peanut butter and chocolate, so why not?  We were just about to put the cake layers in the oven and now we’re working on the icing.  You can lick a beaker once we’re done.”

I approach them as she explains.  I observe the place.  The kitchen island and counters aren’t as messy as Wanda and Natasha themselves, weirdly.  Do they just have a bad habit of getting too carried away?  “I guess it’s a good thing that we’re using the grill.  We’ll all be too hungry before this place is cleaned up in time to make an indoor dinner.”

“Ha-ha,” Natasha mocks.  “Are you criticizing our baking methods now?”

I round on her.  I am much taller than her, yet I can’t tell which of us intimidates the other more.  The air seems to go cold as we stare each other down.  Then I do something I can bet she never would have expected.  I moisten my thumb with my tongue and swipe it across her cheek gently, wiping away the streak of chocolate. 

Her breath seems to stop at the touch of my hand.  Even when my hand leaves her face, she is still frozen in place.  I then lick the chocolate off my thumb.  I moan appreciatively.  “Delicious.”  I turn on my head to head upstairs, but as I reach the stairs, I stop and face Natasha.  “By the way, those cheeks of yours are like silk.”  I head upstairs before I see anyone’s reaction. 

The entire time I go through my morning routine, I think about what I just did.  What the hell was I thinking!  I _never_ do anything that bold.  I never cut into a girl’s personal space like that.  So why did I do it now?  And what brought those words along?  _Your cheeks are like silk_.  The words replay in my mind over and over again.  I mean, I was perfectly honest.  Her cheeks _are_ like silk.  Her skin was just so _soft_.  All I can think about is how soft is the rest of her body?  What would she look like if I could just capture it all down on a canvas?

Her cheeks have a lovely crinkle to them when she smiles and her full lips compliment the piercing sharpness of her emerald eyes.  A little lower, I would have to be blind not to notice her prominent breasts.  It sounds strange in my head to say something along the lines of a small woman with big attributes, but despite the crudeness of it, Natasha is a rare exception.  The prominence of her attributes, from her eyes to her lips, to her breasts, and her ass are just…

 _Oh, God_.  I’m in the shower as these thought run through my head and the heat of the shower combined with those thoughts have been…stimulating.  I gradually turn the shower colder as I try to think of _less_ stimulating thoughts.  I can’t be thinking this way about one of my mother’s tenants for crying out loud!  Isn’t there something completely unethical about a relationship between a tenant and a landlady’s son? 

I stop myself again.  No one ever said anything about a relationship.  I need to screw my head back on!  I finish up my shower and get dressed.  I head back downstairs.  Not a few minutes later, there is a knock at the door. I answer it.  I see Peter and two other people.  The woman is a decently attractive woman with long dark hair and a slim frame.  The man towers over them both.  His hair has wisps of gray over his ears which he has carefully combed back.  Beneath his collared shirt, I see part of what looks like a Marine tattoo.

They cannibalize military funding that ought to go to the army, but I have respect for them.  “You must be Peter’s aunt and uncle. 

“And you must be Sarah’s son,” return’s Peter’s uncle.  He extends his hand.  “Ben Parker.”

“Steve,” I say, reaching out and grasping the older man’s hand.  “And you are?” I ask, addressing the woman.

“May,” replies the woman.  “Nice to meet you.  I’d shake your hand, but my hands are full.”  Her eyes flick down to the glass dish with tinfoil over it. 

“Nice to meet you too, please come in,” I step aside to allow everyone inside.  As soon as they are inside, I don’t even have to look to know that Peter and Natasha have spotted each other. 

“Nat, happy Fourth!” says Peter enthusiastically. 

I hear her chuckle.  It’s such a beautiful sound.  “Happy Fourth, Pete.”  I turn just in time to see them embrace each other quickly, but affectionately.  They really are like brother and sister.  “Did you have much trouble getting here?”

“About as much can be expected on Independence Day,” replies Mary with a groan.  “People screaming at each other, cars barely moving, and the heat definitely didn’t help.”

Ben chuckles.  “Oh darling, you don’t heat until you’ve been to the Middle East,” he argues, bringing his wife in for a kiss to her head. 

“Your nephew told me you served in the Gulf War and re-upped after 9/11,” I say before I can stop myself.

Ben raised an eyebrow as his attention turned to me.  “Did he?  Indeed I did.  I retired from the Corps about ten years ago now.”

“Semper fi,” I acknowledge. 

A smile spreads across Ben’s face.  “Semper fi, Army-boy.”

I glance sideways at him, but I smile at the joking tone of his voice.   

“Where can I put this casserole?” asks May. 

“I’ll take care of that,” says Mom, entering the room and taking the dish from May.  She observes everyone in the room.  “Well, it looks like we have a full house now.”  Her eyes lock with mine and she smiles.  “Let’s get this party started.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m going to put this to a vote. This is primarily a story told by Steve, but who here would like to see at least one chapter told from Natasha’s point of view? Or would at least like to see a tie-in to this story showing her thoughts on certain matters?


	10. Chapter 10

I have to say, after spending some time overseas in typically hot weather a ninety-degree afternoon in Brooklyn isn’t so bad.  In the past, if the Fourth of July was a particularly hot day, sometimes Mom wouldn’t even bother doing any outdoor activities for fear of my health.  Still, sometimes I could talk her into doing some things.  The last time I went to a Fourth of July parade was when I was ten.  Bucky and I managed to fill pillowcases with candy thrown from floats as they passed by. 

If I remember correctly, given the heat of that day, the chocolates got a little melty.  Mom made me refrigerate mine, but Bucky delved right into his, much to his mother’s dismay.

I suppose one thing that is nice about my current situation is that I’m not wearing combat gear.  Nor am I carrying a shield on my back.  Arguably, I did more hand to hand fighting than some of my friends, so my own combat gear tended to be tighter fitting and possibly lighter than normal gear.  I carried the same essential items as any soldier, but some things were omitted for the sake of being able to my job more effectively. 

Even in these jeans and T-shirt, I feel the brunt of the heat.  It’s a cloudless day and there’s only so much shade that the surrounding buildings can provide.  Plus, the heat is exacerbated by the grill.  Despite the heat emanating from the grill, no one can complain about what’s cooking.  Traditionally, Mom doesn’t like others operating her grill on cookouts, so I was surprised when she accepted Ben Parker’s help. 

Before long, the patio was full of the intoxicating smell of grilled steak and corn on the cob.  Soon though, it became clear that I wasn’t participating in my own birthday party very much.

Now I’m just standing in the kitchen looking out the window to the backyard.  I lazily sip at a tall glass of lemonade as I watch the people outside.  Mom and May Parker seem to be engaged in a deep conversation.  Ben Parker is still turning over steaks on the grill.  I don’t know if Natasha managed to get Wanda to talk to Peter, but the three of them are playing Uno on the table.  The table itself is already set and now everyone is just waiting on the food to be ready. 

My only company here inside is the growing smell of the cake layers baking in the oven.  There is a half hour left on the timer.  After that, there will still be the whole process of putting them together and adding the icing.  I see that Natasha is continuously checking her phone, no doubt keeping track of the time while she is outside. 

It all looks so wonderful yet I can’t seem to bring myself to indulge in it.  What am I so afraid of?  Is it possible that the very idea of enjoying myself bothers me?  Why would that bother me?  Coming home from the war should have been a great feeling.  It _is_ a great feeling, yet all the things that I used to enjoy seem to have very little meaning. 

A big part of me wants to join Natasha, Wanda, and Peter.  I can’t seem to bring myself to do it.  Earlier, I swiped a bit of chocolate icing off of Natasha’s face and licked it off my fingers.  A part of me wants to cover her in icing just so that I can lick it off of her.  What am I, a dog?  I could never be so invasive.  Plus, she is most likely not even interested in me.  If I were to repeat what I did, she might even hit me with something again, or worse cut off my hand. 

The only guy that I have seen her interact with other than me, at least in a civil manner, is that kid, Peter.  What’s their story?  How did they meet?  How did they become friends?  Not that it’s any of my business, but that kid seems to bring out a playful side of Natasha that I don’t see too much of. 

That playfulness is evident as Peter lays down a “draw four” card.  Natasha shoots the kid a scowl and smacks him on the arm lightly.  The smack only elicits a laugh from Peter. 

The exchange brings a smile to my lips.  That smile widens as I see Wanda opening up just a little more at a time as the game progresses.  My eyes return to the grill.  Mom has taken over.  A handkerchief is tied around her head, holding her hair back.  It does little to prevent the perspiration glistening on her forehead.  Where is Ben Parker? 

My mental question is quickly answered as the back door opens and the older man appears.  “Ah, your mother was wondering where you were,” he jokes.  “It’s not too hot out, is it?”

The question catches me off-guard.  “Um, no, I just…”

A look of understanding passes over the man’s face as he removes his sunglasses.  “It’s everything, isn’t it?”

I say nothing as I nod softly. 

“Take a seat, son,” Ben invites, indicating the kitchen chair. 

I accept the request and he follows suit.  “Was it difficult?” I ask.  “When you came back from the war?”

Ben offers a glassy smile.  “You have no idea, kid.”  He sighs heavily.  “My wife, May, and I were still a young couple at the time and for weeks, months even I barely opened up to her.  Hell, for days we didn’t even share a bed.  The bed was uncomfortable enough, but also the nightmares were worse.”  He shakes his head.  “I’ll never forgive myself for nearly choking the life out of May when she tried to wake me from one of my nightmares.”

“What got you through it all?” I ask.

“Even after all these years I’m still torn up about the things I’ve seen and done, but having May in my life, my nephew, it has all helped me manage it all these years,” explains Ben.  “When my brother, Richard, and his wife had Peter it was a big turnaround for me.  I was an uncle all of the sudden.  And then when he was very young, his parents died in a plane crash.  So, not only was I an uncle, I was suddenly a parent as well.  I couldn’t raise my brother’s son and wallow in the past at the same time.”

“Are you saying I need to become a father in order to help me recover from my own experiences?” I ask, though as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I think they might have sounded ruder than I meant.  Ben doesn’t seem to care.

“No, what I’m saying is that while they might not be able to relate to your pain, you’re not all alone in the world,” clarifies Ben.  “I can tell your mother loves you and those two young women seem eager to be your friends.”

Wanda, maybe, but Natasha doesn’t seem to do anything without a hidden motive. 

“I can’t promise you that the losses you’ve experienced and the horrors you’ve witnessed will ever stop hurting, but you don’t have to suffer alone,” says Ben.  “Trust me when I tell you, that the longer you bottle up your pain, the worse the damage will be when you finally explode.  And you will explode.”  He emphasizes by imitating an explosion with his hands and popping his lips. 

I smile lightly.  “I guess I can try to open up.”

“Maybe you can, but first, I’m hungry,” says Ben, getting to his feet.  “I don’t know about you, birthday boy, but I’m going to have some steak and corn, maybe even some casserole.”

“Who made the casserole, by the way?” I ask curiously. 

Ben leans in close.  “I did.  My wife is a lot of things, but a cook is not one of them.”  He puts a finger to his lips. 

That makes me laugh a bit.  I too am very hungry.  I rise to my feet and follow Ben outside. 

“Oh, it looks like the all-American birthday boy has decided to join his own party,” quips Natasha, looking up from the table.  She lays down a card.  “Uno,” she announces. 

Wanda and Peter each let out exaggerated moans.  Between the three of them, Wanda has the most cards still.

“Okay, you guys are going to have to wrap up that game now if you want food while it’s hot,” Mom tells them.

“I guess I’m the winner then,” Natasha says victoriously. 

Peter says something in Russian that makes Natasha gape at him indignantly.  She crosses her arms over her chest and responds in Russian.

“Peter, when did you start speaking Russian?” asks May. 

Peter looks up at his aunt innocently.  “I don’t, maybe when I decided my best friend was really awesome?”

Natasha beams at him as she wraps an arm around his shoulders.  “His Russian can still use some work, but he’s getting pretty good at it.”  She gives him an affectionate squeeze.  It’s gone before anyone can notice, but I catch Wanda shooting what is clearly a jealous look at the arm that is wrapped around Peter’s shoulders. 

One by one, everyone starts filling up their paper plates with food from the table.  Mom got out her special platters for the steaks and corn.  The corns are freshly peeled from their husks, so they are very hot.  Mom reminds us to use the clamps to put them on our plates.  There is also corn on the cob holders for people who want them.  May serves the casserole.

The table doesn’t have enough chairs for everyone, so everyone goes back inside and sits around the dining room table.  Natasha and Wanda don’t even serve themselves yet.  The timer on Natasha’s phone goes off and together they head back upstairs to the kitchen to take care of the cake.  Meanwhile, I stay downstairs and eat my meal. 

As I start eating my meal, my original anxiety over eating dissipates.  I don’t share it, but there was one time when there was a cookout at my Army base and out of nowhere there was an attack.  Some insurgents caught us completely by surprise.  The base wasn’t destroyed, but some fifteen people were killed and fifty more were injured including me.  Bucky and I managed to capture an insurgent alive for interrogation, but the price we paid was awful.  After that, it just became one more enjoyable thing that we became afraid of. 

I’m home now.  Crime happens every day in New York City, but the likelihood of some group of armed insurgents coming in with RPGs and improvised fighting vehicles seems pretty slim.  Plus, as far as I know, HYDRA hasn’t reached the city’s black market. 

To my surprise, I even manage to engage in small talk with everyone around the table.  Ben and I even start exchanging more humorous war stories.  Both of us at one point or another even managed to pull pranks on our drill sergeants during basic training.  I snuck into the laundry room and messed up some of the laundry.  The drill sergeants’ fatigues shrunk and the next day when they came to the barracks, they were wearing jeans and T-shirts.

Everyone who failed to hide their laughter when they explained their situation was given extra training that day.  Somehow, no one suspected the ninety-pound asthmatic.  Wait, Peggy might have suspected me, but she didn’t do or say anything about it.  She only gave me a subtle smirk when no one was looking.           

Ben, one time, in retaliation for the grueling drown-proofing sessions, caught there drill instructor passed out after having had too much to drink.  That man must have really loved his mustache.  They shaved it off and glued the shavings to a mirror in the drill instructors’ barracks.  That man must have been _really_ pissed off. 

Eventually, we move on to other topics as it became clear that no one else was able to relate to the conversation.

I am just about finished with my meal when I see Natasha and Wanda coming down the stairs.  Natasha is carrying the cake.  Beaming, Mom gets up and turns out the lights and closes the blinds.  Then everyone starts singing “Happy Birthday.”  I blush as Natasha sets the cake in front of me.  When they finish singing the song, I take a deep breath and blow out the candles. 

Everyone applauds.  Then Mom gets up and starts cutting the cake. 

“What did you wish for?” asks Peter. 

“Hey,” scolds his aunt.  “You know he’s not supposed to reveal what he wished for.”

“It’s okay, May,” I say dismissively.  I wish for a lot of things, but now more than ever, my only wish is that I could have my best friend back.  For the sake of keeping a cheery atmosphere, I don’t think that it’s worth sharing. 

“Ooh, we have presents for you too!” pipes up Wanda, as if she just remembered that.

I frown.  “Presents?” I repeat. 

“Unless you’re too old for presents,” teases Mom. 

“No!” I correct her quickly.  “I’m just…surprised.” 

“Isn’t that part of what makes birthdays special?” asks Mom, raising an eyebrow.

I consider that.  “Yeah, I suppose so.”  Wanda soon shows up with a small pile of presents.  One of them is pretty large.  I carefully push my cake plate aside to make room for the presents.  I start with the smallest one.  I open it eagerly.  I hold up the ornate fountain pen with my name inscribed into it in cursive lettering. 

“I know you like to keep a pocket notebook, so I thought it would be nice to have a brand-pen to go with it,” explains Mom, proudly. 

“I love it, Mom,” I say in earnest.  I open the next present.  It’s a pair of sneakers.  I gaze around questioningly.  Wanda holds up her hand. 

“I saw those beat-up old shoes that you run in,” she explains.  “I thought you could use a new pair.”

I smile broadly.  “Thanks, Wanda.”  I like those old sneakers, but they are pretty beat up.  I open my final present which is no doubt from Natasha.  I take my time opening this one.  As I open it, my smile quickly disappears.  Most of the size is due to a large stack of…canvases.  On top of it are an elaborate set of paintbrushes and even a set of oil paints.  I stare up at Natasha.  I have absolutely no words. 

“Sorry, I forgot to get you paint thinner as well,” she apologizes.  “I knew I was forgetting something.  Anyway, your mom has always talked about how much you used to paint.  Maybe you’ll show me what you can do with those paintbrushes sometime.”  Why do I hear a subtle suggestive tone in that statement?  Is it the way she gives me that crooked smile or her wink? 

“Excuse me, everyone, I…I need to be alone right now,” I announce apologetically.  I rise from my chair and head towards the stairs, ignoring everyone’s voice of concern.  I turn back only slightly.  “Thank you for the birthday party, everyone, I mean that.”  I head upstairs without another word.  I don’t stop until I reach my bedroom.  I close the door behind me and press my back against it, breathing heavily. 

Why would she do that?  Why would she give me something like that?  What gave Mom the right to share something so intimate about me with a couple of strangers?  Eventually, I sink down into a sitting position, my back still against the wall. 

I haven’t given very much thought to painting since I have been home.  When I did think about it, all I could think was that I can’t bring myself to do it again.  I lost the inspiration.  So what’s this feeling that I have?  Those words that Natasha just spoke to me…they are striking me to the core.  The gift and her choice of words, it’s all too much.  Tears brim in my eyes before I can stop them from flowing. 

I don’t hate her for the gift.  In fact, I want to kiss her because of it.  I want to see if those lips of her are as soft as they look.  I want to wrap my arms around her and see if the feel of her embrace with shatter me to the soul.  I want to…

I’m getting ahead of myself.  With a deep breath, I rise to my feet and walk over to my nightstand.  I open the draw and rummage through it until I find what I’m looking for.  At last I find the key to my old art studio.  “I hate you, Nat,” I whisper, regarding the key loathingly. 

With it, I head out of my room and back downstairs.  I say a word to no one as the Peter and his aunt and uncle bid their goodbyes to everyone.  I grab the new art supplies from the dining room table and then head back upstairs.  As I pass everyone along the way, I swear I can see the shadow of a proud look on Mom’s face.  Is it for me or for Natasha’s gift?   

I head to the uppermost floor and walk over to the locked room.  Not giving myself a chance for second thoughts, I unlock it and push the door open.  As I step inside, memories flood my mind.  I would spend hours in here just painting, or even just thinking.  A lot of magic happened in the room.  My imagination was captured on canvas with steadily increasing rates of success.  I poured my heart and soul into this room.  It is my diary. 

I set the brand new supplies down and start removing sheets.  A small cloud of dust comes up with it.  I have to open the window to let some of it out.  I pick up the fan that I always used in this place and set it on the windowsill, facing towards the window.  I plug it in and turn it on.  That will help suck some of the dust out.  Natasha might not have bought paint thinner, but I do find some old paint thinner. 

Finally, I uncover my battered easel.  It has been covered in so much paint over the years that I can’t even remember what its original color was.  I open the bundle of canvases and carefully place one on the easel.  Then I pour generous amounts of paint onto my old pallet.  I remove my shirt and put on my old coveralls that I had hanging on a rusty coat hanger.

I regard the canvas with absolute hatred. 

And I begin to paint. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a treat to my readers, next chapter will be from Natasha's point of view. 
> 
> Cheers.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By request, here is a chapter from Natasha's point of view.

My fingers dance along the black and white keys.  They have the grace my body once had from my days as a ballerina.  I haven’t necessarily lost that grace; I have simply moved on to other things.  If my childhood instructors could see what I have done with my musical abilities…thinking about the consequences makes me shudder. 

I am a classically trained pianist who has nursed a love for classical crossover and contemporary.  I also have a love for jazz.  If I’m not reading sheet music or playing for memory, I let my imagination run wild.  Stick with some basic harmonic key, a chord progression, and a particular mode and I have all I need to create some sort of improvisation.  Those improvisations don’t always turn out how I would like, but no one has told me that I’m a bad player.

My ears flood with a haunting melody that sweeps through the room.  For some reason, I have opted to have the lid open.  Usually if I go for a late-night session upon the piano, I play very quietly, leaving the lid closed.  Most of the time, I just plug my headphones into the keyboard in my bedroom and not even worry about disturbing anyone.  This is an old house; despite Sarah’s renovations, the walls muffle little sound.  Although, at the same time, it can be difficult to hear the neighbors, so that’s an upside. 

Tonight, however, where the only light I have is a reading lamp clamped onto the music stand, I just don’t seem to care.  People should not need permission to express themselves, to express their art.  My music is my art and so is dancing.  I love to dance and I treasure every moment I get to dance. 

As I continue to play the piano, it’s not long before I feel a presence behind me.  I turn without taking my fingers off the keys.  However, I instantly freeze when I see who it is. 

“Steve,” I say.  “Can’t sleep?”  I try to keep my gaze focused on his eyes, but what’s below is proving to be very distracting.  He is shirtless, wearing only a pair of pajama bottoms. 

He doesn’t answer as he slowly approaches me.  As he draws nearer, I realize my hands have left the keys and my legs have swung over to the opposite side of the bench.  I’m now fully facing him as he comes to a stop less than a foot away from me.  The proximity alone is causing waves of uneasiness to ripple through my skin. 

“What do you want?” I ask, staring up at him. 

He gives me a long once-over, as if taking in every inch of my body with considerable care.  I feel naked before him even though I’m wearing shorts and a tank top.  My hair is pulled back with a messy bun.  I don’t feel very presentable.

My lungs fill with a shuddering intake of breath as Steve closes the distance between us.  His large hands settle on my waist as his face leans down towards mine.  I shouldn’t be allowing this.  I have shattered men’s bones for being so forward.  Yet, I can’t seem to bring myself to stop him as his lips connect with mine.  His lips aren’t at all forceful against my lips. 

He gives me plenty of opportunity to pull away.  In fact, he does pull away.  I trap his lower lip between my teeth, stopping him.  My hands, which up until that point were pressed against the bench on either side of me, press against his chiseled abs.  I feel a startled intake of breath from him, but I swallow it down as I slip my tongue into his mouth.  My skin tingles as I feel the tips of his finger slip beneath the waistband of my shorts. 

In a blur of movement, I grab him, swinging him around and pinning him to my piano bench.  Straddling his midsection, I find his eyes in the lackluster light.  They seem to have darkened from a sky-blue to a something a lot deeper, like a satellite image of one of the deeper parts of the ocean.  My bare thighs are pressed against his skin and it excites me.

Without thinking, I grab the hem of my tank top and fling it over my head.  Steve licks his lips at the sight of my upper bareness.  The sensation as his hands snake up my skin to grasp my breasts is almost too much.  I lean down and capture his lips again. 

He pushes against me and swings me over…

  
***

 

_SLAM!_

My eyes open to find myself on the floor next to my bed.  I’m tangled up in a cocoon of sheets and my favorite red and black afghan that Peter crocheted for me.  He learned the skill from his aunt and this afghan was his first effort that wasn’t a mess.  He was so proud of himself and I him.  Also, I realize that _my_ hands, the hands I thought were Steve’s in my dream, are pressed against my breasts.

There’s also a slight dampness in my panties.  “Oh, okay,” I mutter, feeling dejected.  I can’t believe I just had a wet dream about my landlady’s son!  Me and that—that soldier!  Well, I guess I have something to bring up with Peter when we go out for our weekly get-together.  I can’t really remember who started it, but somewhere down the line in our friendship we started exchanging embarrassing stories about our week.  It actually helps relieve some of the tension built up over the course of the week, especially if we don’t get to see each other as much as we would prefer. 

Sometimes he comes to my dance classes.  He needs no instruction; he’s a natural.  Dancing with him offers a demonstration for my students, or it just adds a little bit of fun to my workload after a particularly tiring lesson.

I wonder if he has a story to top something like a dream about Steve Rogers.  I think I’ll just keep that one to myself, even if we are horrible at keeping secrets from each other. 

With a groan, I untangle myself and rise to a sitting position with my back against the bed.  I’m wearing everything I was wearing in that dream—a white tank top and blue shorts that barely cover my legs. 

Should I have seen that dream coming?  Ever since he licked that streak of icing from my cheek, all I could think about was him slowly licking that stuff off his fingers.  The word he used.  “Delicious,” I repeat into the darkness.  I repeat it in every language I know—English, Russian, French, Italian, and Latin.  I feel like I’m very good at reading people and I cannot read that moment. 

What was he calling delicious, me or the icing?  I know he enjoyed that cake and Wanda and I saved the rest of it especially for him.  He seems like a guy with a lot of secrets, but he’s a terrible liar.  I discovered that on my own and he didn’t realize it. 

What has he been doing, anyway?  Ever since he stormed off after opening my present, he has locked himself in that room upstairs.  Did he ruin that present I gave him? 

I can’t keep my curiosity under control.  I unwrap myself from my sheets and rise to my feet.  I then grab an oversized hoodie from a hook on the back of my bedroom door.  It’s a University of Iowa hoodie, a hand-me-down from my friend, Clint Barton.  He’s not terribly taller than me.  He’s shorter than Steve.  The hoodie is a little tight around my breasts, but is otherwise very big on me. 

I zip up the front of it about halfway and leave my bedroom.  It’s after midnight so I tiptoe around the house.  Sarah takes insane care of this house, so there is no creak in the wood as I head up the stairs.  I could have checked Steve’s room, but I know he’s not in his room.  When I reach the top floor, I regard the door to Steve’s studio thoughtfully. 

For as long as I have lived here, that room has been under careful lock and key.  For the most part, I have obeyed Sarah’s strict guidelines word for word.  It’s definitely better than my other option, which would have involved living in the Griffith Hotel where I would be at the mercy of Miriam Fry.  I can be respectful of an uptight person’s guidelines, but I wanted to be able to have visits from men I consider friends.  Plus, Miriam Fry seems to think there is something wrong with twenty-something-year-old woman who teaches ballet to young girls.  What’s up with women who think that there is something distrustful about an attractive young woman? 

If only that woman knew just how dangerous of a woman I truly am.

The one rule from Sarah I did not follow was keeping out of Steve’s studio.  I could have enlisted Wanda’s help, but she is far too wholesome.  I managed to find the key to that room and made a copy of it from key machine at the grocery store, all before Sarah finished her shift at the hospital.  Even after I had it made, it was nearly a month before I could bring myself to open that door. 

I can be duplicitous; I can even be a downright backstabber, but with Sarah Rogers?  Disrespecting her feels like kicking a puppy, something I would never do.  I have hurt people; I have killed people…including one child.  Drekov’s daughter will haunt me until the day I die. 

Sarah Rogers has a sense of wholesomeness that is as contagious as the common cold, or even mononucleosis.  Her son, Steve, despite the fact that we can barely call ourselves perfunctory friends, seems to radiate a similar, if not stronger sense of goodness.  Put them together and I just feel so inadequate has a human being.              

They make me want to strive towards being a better person. 

I close the distance to that door and fish the key out of the pocket of my hoodie.  I don’t know why I always keep that key with me.  As quietly as I can, I unlock the door and push it open.  As I step into the room, I have to resist turning on the light.  Even with only the moonlight and maybe a streetlamp or two to light the room, I can clearly see the contents of this room.

This room was always a controlled mess of paintings and unused canvases.  It’s not the only room with paintings and drawings done by Steve, but these ones seem the most intimate.  I guess I could say that all the times I made secret visits to this room I was really getting to know Steve Rogers.

There are intimate memories captured with paint in this room.  There’s a depiction of a Brooklyn playground featuring a handsome brown-haired young man and a scrawny blond boy.  The scrawny boy has scrapes on his knees and black eye and is sitting all alone on a bench while all the other children are at play.  The bigger, healthier looking boy, who I eventually presumed to be Bucky Barnes has a friendly smile on his face as he offers a baseball glove to Steve. 

It’s a depiction of a simple act of kindness that I’m sure was the start of a brotherly friendship.  That’s the kind of person Bucky was.  Through paintings alone, I was able to determine that he was a kid who was willing to be friends with someone when no one else would. 

There are other paintings in this room.  There’s a painting of a younger Steve in the arms of Sarah Rogers.  There’s a painting of Steve dressed in a tux standing in the middle of the room with all the young ladies’ backs to him.  So he was a kid who was picked on and rejected because he was small and frail. 

But I also saw kindness in these paintings.  I see Steve comforting his mother while she cries.  That one’s my personal favorite.  She’s wearing a beautiful blue dress.  My best guess is that she had a date with a potential suitor and it didn’t turn out the way she would have liked.  She had a man who cared about her all along.  There are other paintings of Steve showing kindness, but that one is my favorite. 

Almost all surfaces of this room is covered in paintings.  I’m literally standing in Steve Rogers’ diary.  One way I’ve been able to see a sense of chronological order is how the paintings differ in the level of skill.  All of these paintings show that Steve had an exceptional skill as an artist even as a youngster, but the improvement could not be clearer.  

There are three new paintings.  There is a painting of Wanda.  I have to say, the painting does her justice better than any photograph I have ever seen.  Wanda is a lovely young woman, but I didn’t realize she was _that_ beautiful. 

Steve amazes me. He hasn’t seemed too keen on being interactive—at least not with me—but henhas also shown how fiercely protective he can be.  I spent hours just mulling over what I saw at Tony Stark’s house.  It bothers me enough that Alexei is in town.  I keep dreading the next time he decides to cause trouble.  Despite Steve’s harsh words towards me, he may have earned my respect for what he did for Wanda. It was stupid and ill-advised for him to go against someone like Alexei, but that’s exactly what he did.

I think maybe it did more than just cause him to gain my respect.  

The second painting shows Steve reuniting with his mother.  They are wrapped in each other’s arms and it’s as beautiful, if not more beautiful than the actual event.  Finally, I move on to the third painting.

This one catches me completely off-guard.  It’s me, obviously, but it’s just… The brushstrokes are very meticulous.  My red hair is depicted with a series of swirling patterns that look as if Steve’s hand was dancing and the canvas was its dancefloor.  What’s most startling is what I’m doing in the painting.  I’m playing the piano and my fingers are a blur of movement along the keys.  Save for the redness of my long waves and curls, Steve used false colors.  The painting seems to nothing but carefully placed shades of red.  It’s like black and white, but red instead. 

Am I really that beautiful to him?  I can’t be that beautiful.  The woman in that painting is a figment of his imagination.  The woman in that painting is a dream girl, a make-believe person embodying what Steve must see as womanly perfection.  Only a sliver of the woman’s face is in the picture; it can’t be me.

Yet my gut knows that it _is_ me. 

Finally, I see Steve himself.  He must have spent most of these hours just painting.  Now he’s sitting against the window frame with his head bent slightly.  I see the rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps silently.  There are streaks of paint on his coveralls and even some on his face.  I look around and none of his paintbrushes are dirty.  He must have just cleaned up after himself and collapsed. 

It’s so beautiful, yet so heartbreaking all at once.

Judging by all these paintings, I thought I would meet a kind, joyful, and even sweet person.  I never thought I would get a man damaged by war and personal tragedy. 

I’ve killed people.  I’ve broken people.  I’ve tortured people.  People like Wanda, Peter Parker, and Clint Barton have reminded me that I’m a human being.  Sarah Rogers is my landlady, though my purposes for living here are a bit more complex, yet she feels so much more like a mother I never had. 

Steve Rogers?  I don’t know what he is other than the fact that he seems fundamentally broken.  I want to fix him. 

Why does that scare the hell out of me? And how am I supposed to do that when sooner or later, he's going to have to face another tragedy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, come on you guys didn't think things would escalate THAT quickly, did you? 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. Let me know if you'd like to see more chapters featuring Natasha's point of view. 
> 
> But this is Steve's story.


	12. Chapter 12

I’m not sure how I felt when I woke up in my art studio.  My initial feeling was that of déjà vu.  There were a number of occasions growing up where I found myself having fallen asleep in this room.  I guess I had experience sleeping on harder surfaces before I ever joined the Army.  I could be wrong, but sometime during the night, I could have sworn I felt a presence here in this room with me.  It must my imagination, or my dreams playing tricks on me.

No one else has a key to this room. 

I stood up and stretched out my sore body.  She wasn’t in the room, but I could just picture Mom rolling her eyes as she sipped morning coffee.  I took a moment to look over the paintings I did the night before.  I don’t know what led me to paint.  I was angry at Natasha for getting me the gift of paint.  Was it anger?  Did I just not know how to react to such an intimate gift? 

The funny this is, I didn’t even consider throwing it all out.  I just started painting.  I felt that I captured everyone very well if I do say so myself.  I’m not much of a bragger, but I know when I do well with my art.  What caught my attention the most was the way I captured Natasha. 

I didn’t use natural colors.  Why did I choose a color scheme for her?  I had plenty of paint.  I could have used true colors, but instead I didn’t.  I chose a color scheme.  I chose the color of her hair.  I had to tear my gaze away from the painting.  I had to leave the room. 

I just went to the bathroom without even bothering to grab a clean set of clothes.  I took a while in the shower, taking a little longer than I normally do.  In the Army, I learned to be quick in the shower.  I’m not in the Army any more.  I’ve been discharged with full honors. 

It shouldn’t hurt to unlearn the routine of a soldier.  It might even help me come to the mental realization that I’m home. 

Perhaps I spent too much time in the shower.  The water was becoming lukewarm by the time I got out.  I was in the middle of shaving by the time the door opened behind me.  I stared at Natasha as she stood in the doorway, in her pajamas, with a set of clothes under her arm.  I sighed as I made sure the towel around my waist was secure. 

“Natasha, we really need to work on the art of knocking, don’t you think?” I asked with a smirk. 

She exclaimed loudly and stormed away.  What was her problem?  She seemed too flustered for a simple case of walking into the bathroom at the wrong moment. 

Truth be told, I’m growing to enjoy seeing her get flustered.  I love the silly exclamations she makes and the way she grabs a fistful of her hair, making some of her hair fall in her face, obscuring one of her eyes.

I went back to my room and got dressed.  While I was in my room, I saw the VA brochure that Mom gave me.  The date on it was today’s date.  I didn’t want to go to that seminar.  But then I pictured Mom’s disappointed face.  I didn’t want to disappoint her. 

I made sure that I made it to that seminar.  I said nothing of it.  I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.  All I needed was my mother’s silent satisfaction of me doing something she thought I should do.  The seminar was in the afternoon.  What should I do until then? 

I suppose I could have painted some more.  I could have sat on the roof and sketched.  One thing that I’m finding myself having to grow used to is the lack of anything to do.  There is plenty to do in New York, but my brain is still thinking the routine of a soldier.  I’m not carrying a weapon, nor should I expect enemies to pop up out of nowhere.  As far as I’m aware, Hydra doesn’t have a foothold in New York.  I can leave that sort of thing to New York’s Finest. 

Thinking about the NYPD reminded me that I need a job.  Military service theoretically looks good on a job application.  I’m not sure I want to become a police officer though.  One that had crossed my mind is the idea of them giving me a shield with the NYPD’s seal on it.  Or they might just ask to redecorate my shield with their colors.  I would be a poster boy all over again.

I’m not sure I want a job as a cop, or even a Secret Service agent.  Outside of the Army, being an artist is all I know.  I’m not sure I have the capacity medical school.  I have seen enough wounded people to last me a lifetime.  I know Mom had never judged me for choosing art over medical school.  She has always wanted me to pursue what I’m passionate about.  Her passion is medicine, healing people.  My passion is capturing the beauty of the world around me on parchment and canvas.

Mom would be more disappointed to see me pursue something that I didn’t enjoy doing.  As a cancer doctor, Mom is used to being the bearer of bad news, but she does the best she can.

I could make money off of being an artist.  I’ve done it before.  It wasn’t much, but it’s something I enjoy.   I would rather live on my own dime.  My mother is a very wealthy doctor.  She’s no billionaire, but she can afford a more than comfortable life for everyone living under her roof.

Mom has always pointed me to the art galleries of higher society.  I remember one of my paintings was purchased by some snob from the Upper East Side.  I say snob because she was just very rude to me.  She loved the painting and paid generously for it.  She just couldn’t believe that the artist was some scrawny, ninety-five-pound Brooklynite and she was very loud about it.

Looking back, I probably would have torn the five-figure check and told her that the painting wasn’t for sale.  That’s what Bucky always said I should have done.  I was the stupid kid always getting himself beaten up and he was the stupid kid always getting himself in trouble for standing up for me.

The paintings I completed last night are not going to be sold, nor seen by anyone if I can help it.  They are my memories.  They are moments from my life. 

One thing I noticed over the course of the day was Natasha seemed to be avoiding me.  Not that I completely cared—did I?—it was just very noticeable.  Every time I looked in her direction, she averted her eyes.  Maybe if she looked me in the eye, she would turn to stone.  I’m content to be her personal Medusa. 

The weirdest thing came when I went downstairs while she was playing her piano.  All I was doing was approaching her softly.  I’m not sure I like her, but I do enjoy her music.  I love to watch her hands dance across the black and white keys.  I even enjoy just closing my eyes and listening to the music she creates.  It almost seems the music is an extension of her beauty.  She and her music are one and the same. 

That music came to an abrupt end when she noticed my presence.  Then she said the strangest thing. 

“If you kiss me, I swear to God, I will break your legs!”

I wasn’t expecting that.  I tried to put as delicately as I could when I assured her that I wasn’t planning on kissing her.  I was tempted to ask her why I would want to kiss her.  Sure, she’s beautiful, but I’m not interested in her like that.  I swear I’m not.  Her silky cheeks beg to be touched and I wonder if her lips taste as delicious as they look.  For crying out loud, I’m tempted to make a fool of myself by asking her to dance with me.

I can’t dance.  Peggy once promised to teach me to dance.  Then I got injured in battle and spent the remainder of my military service in a coma.  I’m happy that Peggy has found herself a man.  I would love to see her and see about making good on that promise to learn to dance, but it just doesn’t seem right.  Some might say that if I really loved her, I would go after her.

Maybe that’s just it.  Maybe it was just a mutual attraction that never got to go beyond that first kiss we shared.  Even so, for better or for worse, I’m glad that Peggy Carter was a part of my life at least for a little while. 

Now I’m sharing a house with another beautiful woman.  Technically _two_ beautiful women, but Wanda is a little young for me. 

Clearly it was too awkward for me to be around Natasha at the moment, so I just decided to go out.  I still had an hour to kill before the VA seminar, so I did some exploring.  I got on my motorcycle and rode to Manhattan.  I went to Central Park.

I forgot my sketchbook.  If I couldn’t capture what I saw, I could just find a bench and watch.  Parents played with their children.  Young couples walked along the paved paths, pressed close together and giggling away.  I saw a few elderly couples and I couldn’t help admiring them for being together.  What hardships did they face?  What was their secret to managing to stay together for so many years? 

Eventually, it was time to head to the seminar.  I left Central Park and eventually found the address for the VA hospital.  I ended up a few minutes late due to an accident several blocks down the street.  I wasn’t going to cut through the traffic.  I did however find a detour when I came up to an alleyway. 

Now I am here, in the building, and I’m apprehensive.  I walk to the room as directed by a receptionist.  I don’t open the door right away.  I’m not sure that I’m ready for this.  Mom’s voice reminds me that sometimes we have to force ourselves to do things, even if we’re not ready for it.

So I take a deep breath and open one of the double doors.  I have entered a large room.  It’s like a small amphitheater, or a lecture hall with raised seats.  Instead of people sitting in those raised seats, people are sitting in a big circle on folding chairs.  At the sound of the door opening, most likely, whoever was speaking stops and all eyes turn in my direction. 

“Hey, who are you?” asks an African American I assume in charge of the group.  He stands up and approaches me.  He’s average height, well-muscled, and has a thin beard and equally thin hair. 

“Um, Steve Rogers,” I reply.  I read into the inside pocket of my jacket and pull out the brochure.  “I was told about this place a few weeks back.

The man nods at me.  He smiles and holds out his hand.  “Well, the more the merrier.  Sam Wilson.”

I grasp his hand and shake it. 

After inviting me to pull up a chair, some people make room for me in the circle. 

 

A half hour later, I realize I underestimated how intense one of these meetings can be.  Everyone takes turns sharing something about themselves, about their struggles, and where they served.  One person actually brought a tennis ball and the circle of people talking was broken.  Instead, whoever had the ball spoke as it was randomly tossed around.

A middle-aged woman, a demolitions expert from the Army and a devoted wife and mother, described an incident a couple of days ago where she was pulled over by the police.  She swerved to avoid a plastic bag.  The officer who pulled her over thought she was driving under the influence.  She never drank alcohol in her life.  She thought the plastic bag was an improvised explosive device.  She thought it was getting worse.  Her son is on a high school football team and she can barely sit through one of them.  Seeing the football thrown around reminds her too much of flying artillery. 

Her husband has been trying to remind her to stay off the road, but she wants to be able to do certain things herself. 

A Navy chief, ever since he was honorably discharged a year ago, has been afraid of big spaces.  He has been locking himself in a small room sometimes for days at a time without sunlight.    

He was a submariner; he’s used to being in tighter spaces without seeing the sun for weeks at a time.  He wasn’t without trauma however.  One time his submarine collided with an oil tanker at periscope depth.  The submarine was damaged, but stayed afloat.  However, they had to wait several hours for help to come.  The crew was scheduled to go on leave in time for Thanksgiving, but they couldn’t make it.  They were at radio silence, so they couldn’t even tell their families what happened until after the date. 

A former Navy SEAL had to deal with having lost the bottom half of his legs to a landmine; two people gave very gory details about watching one or all of their friends die gruesome deaths.  Sam Wilson, himself, shared a story of his time as a pararescue operative.  His wingman, Riley, was shot down by an RPG that came out of nowhere.  After that, he just couldn’t find much reason to continue active service. 

I can identify with that.     

Eventually, the ball comes to me.  I look over the ball thoughtfully.  I’m not sure I’m ready to share what I have to share.  I could talk about my service and leave out the part where I was Captain America.  Talking about Bucky—just _thinking_ about Bucky—hurts.  Sometimes, I can’t help thinking I cheated him.  He was medically eligible to enlist and was quickly promoted to sergeant.  I went to basic training and was selected for Project Rebirth.  I was commissioned as an officer while acting as the Army’s mascot.  I would have been more content to earn my commission at officer candidate school.

I wasn’t even in the Army as long as Bucky and I quickly outranked him.  He died saving my life.  All they ever found of his body was his left arm.  I sure hope they didn’t send that miserable piece of Bucky back to his family along with his personal belongings.  And there is another thing; my shame is exacerbated by the cruel words of his mother. 

“Rogers, do you have anything to share?”

I snap out of my thoughts and see Sam Wilson looking at me expectantly.  Everyone else is looking at me too. 

I take a deep breath, my eyes returning to the tennis ball.  “Do any of you go ever sit on a park bench and just watch people?” no one answers.  “I don’t mean in a stalking sort of sense; just watching what they do, how they act, how they speak.  Do you ever watch a kid as he or she plays with their parents, friends, and siblings?  Do you try to lock the image of their smile in your head?  When you walk down the street, do you stop and watch as some white-collar businessman chatters away on his Bluetooth?  How many people do you see who seem to have no concern other than getting from point A to point B?”

I look up and I start to see some nods, even a cracked smile or two. 

“These people pay us to go and fight their wars while they live their lives and let the world pass them by at the same time.  They live here with their paved roads, local grocery stores, and books, and movies, TV, and shopping centers.  On social media they whine and complain about who’s doing what, who’s doing who, and how stupid this Republican or that Democrat is.  People walk around with their thumbs twiddling away at their phones, not caring or not recognizing the world around them. 

“How many of them actually stop to realize just how lucky they are?  How many of them stop and see the beauty around them?  Do any of them stop and be grateful for the fact that they can go out and buy half a dozen eggs, or see a movie, or pack up their car and go on vacation upstate or to their ridiculous Hampton summer houses? 

“We’ve all spent time in places where woman are universally abused, where people don’t always have enough to eat, where medical care is scarce.  All the while people are killing each other all around them.

“We’ve lost friends, family, brothers, and there are some people in this godforsaken country who mock us for it.  They should be grateful that they don’t live in a war-torn country.  Sometimes our leaders suck, sometimes the policies are worse, sometimes even I really do wallow in the amount of hatred and distrust that surround us.  Sometimes the leaders we elect seem keen on institutionalizing hatred towards minorities who may or may not be illegal immigrants. 

“But you know what, at the end of the day, we live in America.  I’m proud to be an American,” I declare as my voice breaks.  “I’m proud that I got to serve my country.  I’ll go to my grave wishing like hell that everyone I went to war with came home with me, but people die.  There is just so much beauty all around us and if we just stop and let it all sink in…maybe we’ll all realize that life is a lot more beautiful than we give it credit for.”

Tears flow freely down my cheeks now and I’m sobbing into my hand.  Slowly, I start to hear clapping.  Soon everyone is clapping.  I look up from my hand and indeed everyone is clapping and giving me looks ranging from sympathy to admiration.  Even the grump the SEAL is clapping. 

“I think that’s enough for today, everyone,” says Sam Wilson.  Soon, everyone starts rising from their chairs.  Sam helps the SEAL to his feet and into his crutches.  I have seen my chair of amputees and my heart aches for each and every one of them. 

I’m the last to leave as Sam puts away the chairs. 

“Hey, Rogers.”

I turn around and look at Sam Wilson.  “That was a good speech, man.”

“Thanks, Mr. Wilson,” I say with a bitter smile.  I didn’t mean for it to be speech.

The other man laughs.  “Call me Sam.”

“Call me Steve,” I fire back. 

“You’re Captain America, aren’t you?” asks Sam.

My eyes narrow.  “Yeah,” I confirm.

“Whoa, buddy, I didn’t mean it like that,” Sam says quickly, registering my look.  “I mean, yeah, you’re a great soldier, and even the guys in the Air Force talk about you, but that’s not what I meant.  It must have been tough, being some kind of mascot for the Army.”

A smile finds its way onto my features.  “You have no idea.  I joined the Army to serve my country, because I didn’t like bullies.  I ended up being a propaganda tool in tights.”

Sam groans.  “Yeah, I’ve seen the footage.  They really like to get creative with our flag, don’t they?”

“I would’ve preferred to wear that flag on my shoulder like a normal soldier.”  Sam laughs at that and I end up laughing with him. 

“You lost somebody in the war, didn’t you?” asks Sam after a few minutes.  His voice turns very solemn. 

I exhale slowly.  “My best friend,” I respond.  “We pretty much took turns saving each other’s lives and I guess his number came up first.  They only ever found his left arm.  And now I’m home and his mother is giving me crap for coming home and not him.”

Sam shakes his head.  “After my wingman died, just about all of his family alienated me except for his wife.  I still keep in touch with her, but I’m not invited to their family cookouts anymore.”

“Grief is a powerful emotion.”

“Tell me about it.”  Sam takes a deep breath.  “So hey, if you feel more comfortable just talking to me, here’s my number.”  He pulls out a pen and I give him my brochure to write on.  “And you don’t even have to talk to me like I’m a shrink.”

I smile as I take back the brochure.  “Thanks, Sam.”

Sam shrugs.  “Don’t mention it, Steve.  Listen, I got to close up, so goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” I echo.  I don’t voice it, but I think it will do me good having a friend with similar experiences.  I can just hear Mom’s voice telling me she told me so.  I leave the building and head down the street.  Mom will want me home in a couple of hours for dinner, but I have time for a little walk. 

I really am happy to be home.  Sometimes even I forget to appreciate the country I live in.  As I walk, I hear my name. 

“Steve Rogers?”

I stop and turn in the direction of the voice.  My eyes land on a blonde woman in a faux leather jacket over a ruffled blouse.  I think I recognize her.  Yeah, she was at Stark’s party.  “Sharon, right?”

She smiles.  “That’s me,” she confirms.  “What’re you doing in the city?”

I clear my throat.  “I…um-uh, I was…around,” I stammer.  

Sharon just laughs at my plight.  “Where are you headed?”

“Nowhere at the moment.”

She seems to consider me for a moment or two.  “Do you want to grab a coffee?”

Now it’s my turn to consider her.  “I’d like that.  But if you spoil my dinner, the deal’s off.”

Sharon laughs again.  “Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't murder me for that very last part. Pretty please? 
> 
> But anyway, I do feel that we, not just Americans, take way too much for granted in our lives.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. 
> 
> Endgame got in the way among other things. 
> 
> Oh and today's my birthday. 
> 
> Please enjoy.

I didn’t know what to expect when I agreed to join Sharon for a coffee.  I don’t know her.  I don’t even know her last name.  I guess I could say I’m taking a leap of faith.  The scary part about taking leaps of faith is that sometimes you have no idea where the bottom is.  Will I land softly or really hard? 

So far on this little coffee date, I feel like I’m floating.  It’s not a scary feeling, but it’s not pleasurable either.  I don’t know if I’m actually floating, or if I’m in a freefall on my way to a nasty death.  What I do know is that I don’t feel like I’m walking across an invisible bridge that only presents itself through a show of faith.   

Maybe it’s normal to feel this way.  I don’t know Sharon.  This coffee date is meant to fix that to a degree.  Is it possible that she is giving me a less-than-good vibe?  That shouldn’t be fair.  It’s like judging a book by its cover; you mustn’t do that.  However, if I _am_ to judge Sharon by what I see, what I see is a beautiful woman with something of a square jawline, an aquiline nose and brown eyes to contrast her blonde hair. 

We walk to the closest coffee shop I know of.  It’s a small family-owned place, but the coffee itself is actually quite good.  I ordered a frappe.  I might have even bought a cake pop, but they always seem overpriced for a bite or two of cake. 

After that, we just start walking along the street with no real sense of where we are going.  Sharon asks me question after question about me.  She asks me how life is treating since I have been out of the war.

I’m truthful.  I tell her that it is an adjustment.  It’s refreshing to know that I can sleep without expecting an attack from someone, but my reflexes still seem to think otherwise.  What I don’t share is that I haven’t reached a point where I feel safe enough to sleep without a knife under my pillow.  I also share that I’m now sharing my house with a couple of young women renting out two of the bedrooms.

Sharon asks about how I feel about that. 

It’s an adjustment, to say the least.  Growing up, sometimes it seemed that my mother as well as Bucky’s mother and sisters were the only women I wasn’t remotely awkward with. 

I tell her that as of right now in my life, I’m a little aimless.  I don’t know where I’m going.  I don’t know what I’m doing.  I’m out of the Army with distinguished honors.  It looks great on a résumé, but what I do know outside of being a soldier?  Sharon asks me what I like to do.  When I tell her that I’m an artist, she suggests I try to find something to put those skills to good use.

That _is_ something I could do.  I did consider taking classes in graphic design, or architectural design, or something like that.  None of those options suited what I wanted to do with my art skills.  I wanted to paint.  I wanted my tools to be my paintbrush or my charcoals and my canvases.  So those are the classes I took. 

I ended up going to war before I could make use of the skills I went to college for.   

As I continue to talk with Sharon, the more I can’t help wondering if she would have talked to me if I was still scrawny and frail.  I might be tall and strong now, but in many ways I still feel like that little guy who spent more time being sick than healthy.

Sharon walked up to me at Tony Stark’s party because she thought I was handsome, didn’t she?  Somehow, I don’t think that would have happened a few years ago.  I’ve gotten so used to be overlooked and now one in…three or four women of many ages give me a second glance.

I think I liked it better when it seemed I was unworthy of a second glance.

As I talk to Sharon, there is one thing that soon becomes clear.  I’m doing all the talking and I haven’t asked her many questions about her. 

“So what do _you_ do for a living?” I ask.

The question seems to catch Sharon unusually off-guard.  Why is that?  “Um, I’m a nurse,” she replies eventually as she takes a sip of her coffee.

I raise my eyebrows.  “Oh yeah, which ward, which hospital?”

“Trauma ward,” she replies.  I can’t help noticing that she answers the question with a little too much care.  It could be that she isn’t very good at talking about herself.  I have dealt with a few operatives, including Peggy Carter.  Maybe I’m overestimating my abilities, but I think I know when someone is hiding something or not being entirely truthful. 

I let the fact that she didn’t say which hospital slide.  “Okay, what do you do in your spare time?”

“I don’t have very much spare time.”

I chuckle softly.  “My mother is an oncologist at Brooklyn Medical; I know all about how busy a hospital can keep a person.  So you have free time now.  What do you like to do besides drink coffee with men you barely know?”

Sharon raises an eyebrow teasingly.  “Is this an interrogation?”

“I’ve already told you a lot about me,” I counter.  “It seems fair.”

Sharon regards me thoughtfully.  “I play videogames and I like to play tennis.”

“Videogames and tennis,” I muse.  “That’s quite a combination.  Do you ever play tennis competitively?”

Sharon laughs.  “I do consider myself a competitive woman, but I play tennis for fun.  As for the videogames, I usually just play role-playing games.”

“Competitive on the job, but not so much in your spare time?” I sum up. 

“Something like that.” Sharon checks her phone.  “Oh, I’m sorry, but I have to get back to the hospital now.  She gulps down the rest of her coffee and throws away the cup in a nearby trashcan.

“Okay, well maybe we can meet again at some point?” I ask.  “When are you available?”

“I have all of next weekend off,” replies Sharon. 

“Then do you want to meet me for dinner in Brooklyn on Saturday?” I invite, despite how nervous I am.  “Eight o’clock at the Jazz Fondue?” 

Sharon smiles again.  “It’s a date.”  With that, she walks off, soon disappearing into the throng of people.

I smile lightly.  I finish the rest of my frappe and go back to my motorcycle.  Traffic isn’t too terrible today, so getting back to Brooklyn isn’t too difficult.  One thing I miss about where I was in the war is that I could travel along a road without much interference.  At the same time, back in the war, a stretch of road presented its own type of danger.  An unpaved road could be littered with mines; a paved road could have people hiding with RPGs or IEDs.  An abandoned car could very well be a bomb. 

However, when I didn’t have worry about those things, I found myself enjoying being on roads that weren’t crowded.  But crowds can be hacked.  I wasn’t nearly as brave as Bucky growing up, but sometimes even I would end up cutting through a traffic jam on my motorcycle.  I don’t know if it’s fate or dumb luck that I managed not to get a ticket.  Ticket or no ticket, my mother’s disapproving eye is a lot scarier. 

Eventually I make it back home and park my bike.  I check my watch.  Dinner should be ready in a half hour.  I walk into the house and my nose is invaded by the smell of a roast, making my mouth water.  I knew Mom had something in the crockpot this morning.  Now a thick blanket of the roast’s aroma is in the air.

I might have had a frappe, but that is not going to spoil my dinner.  It’s not long before I see everyone.  Mom and Wanda are watching a rerun of _Brooklyn 99_ and Natasha is still working in the finishing touches for dinner. 

Mom is the first to notice me. 

“Ah, darling, you’re home!” she greets with a smile, rising from her favorite armchair.  “How was the VA meeting?”

I wince.  I’m not sure I’m ready to discuss that openly.  “Um, it went okay,” I reply. 

Mom meets my eye and understands that it’s probably a conversation good for a later time, when it’s just me and her.  “Fair enough,” she says eventually.  “Why don’t you help Natasha set the table downstairs and then we can eat.”  She sits back down in her chair and goes back to her show.

I smile.  “Okay.”  I take off my jacket and put it in the closet. 

“What else did you do today?” asks Wanda from the living room.  “You seem a little happy for someone who just came from group therapy.”

“That’s a good question, Wanda,” adds Mom.  “What has you in a good mood?”

There’s no way out of this one, is there?  “I, um…” I can feel my cheeks flushing already.  Now I _really_ have everyone suspicious, I’m sure.  “I ran into a woman I met at Tony’s party.  We set up a date this coming weekend.”

Suddenly a loud crash makes everyone jump.  I turn my attention towards Natasha and I see what’s happened.  At her feet there are shards of a dinner plate and one of her hands is bleeding.  She looks at her hands dumbly. 

“Ouch,” she says, staring down at her hands curiously.  “I’m so sorry, Sarah, that was one of your good plates.”

“Don’t worry about the plate,” Mom brushes off, getting up off her chair and rushing into the kitchen.  Tenderly, she takes Natasha’s hands.  “Oh, dear, it looks like you have a shard stuck in your hand.” 

“It’s okay, Sarah, I can get it out,” assures Natasha.

“No!” I protest.  I think I might have said it louder than I meant to because everyone jumped.  “I can take care of it.”

Mom and Natasha give me strange looks. 

“Honey, are you sure?” asks Mom. 

I smile at my mother.  “I’m positive.”

Mom studies me for what seems like a long time.  “Suit yourself; you remember where the first aid kit is.”

With that, I take Natasha and guide her to our bathroom upstairs.  When we get there, I sit her on the toilet with the lid down and pull out the large first aid kit from below the sink.  I pull out a pair of tweezers, some antibiotic cream and some bandages. 

“Would you relax, Steve?” asks Natasha.  “You’re making _me_ nervous.”

I stop and face her.  I realize I have been frantically rushing to get all these things put together.  She cups her bleeding hand gingerly, trying to suppress the blood flow.  She already has a bloodstain on her red shirt.  I take a deep breath and try to calm down.  “Give me your hand,” I say simply as I kneel in front of her. 

Natasha holds her injured hand out to me.  As gently as I can, I cup her hand with my free hand and grab the tweezer which I’ve sterilizing under a flow of hot water from the sink. 

“Hold still; this might stink,” I instruct.  She inhales sharply as I carefully grab the shard in her hand with the tweezers and lift it out.  She’s bleeding more now, but I still see more shards.  Eventually, I remove four shards, and while I see tears of pain streaming down Natasha’s face, she does not move.

When I’m down, I set the tweezers down.  “Okay, you can wash the blood off.”

Natasha gets up and goes to the sink to wash her hands.  When she’s done, she returns to her seat on the toilet.  I start applying the cream. 

“You should be more careful,” I scold.

“It was just an accident,” Natasha brushes off.

I lock eyes with her.  She stares right back and for a minute or two it seems the very air in the room has turned to ice.  “You’re a musician.  You have beautiful hands and you need to take care of them.  They make better sound than I do art.  What’s a musician without her hands?”

“A vocalist?” replies Natasha with a smirk. 

“And you have a lovely voice, but you can’t have one without the other, can you?”

“Careful, Steve,” warns Natasha with a glint of mischief in her emerald eyes.  “It sounds like you’re complimenting me.”  She winces as I start wrapping gauze around her Band-Aid.

“I’m just speaking from one artist to another,” I correct. 

“Still, it sounds like you’re starting to care about me,” Natasha continues.  

I scowl at her humor as I finish up with her dressing.  “You live under my mother’s roof.  Of course, I care about your wellbeing, as well as Wanda’s.”

Natasha mutters something in Russian.  By the tone of it, she doesn’t sound convinced. 

I stare at her again as I rise to my feet.  She rises to her feet as well and suddenly she feels awfully close.

“I’d like to see some of your art sometime,” she says softly.

I scoff. “I lost inspiration to paint a long time ago.”

She smirks. “You’re a terrible liar.”  

A long silence follows as she stares up at me, the swell of her breasts nearly brushing my midsection with every breath.  My nose is flooded with the rosy fragrance of her and the mint of her breath.  Her lips are parted and I wonder if they are as soft as they look.  “It’s time for dinner,” I whisper.  “Maybe you should change into a clean shirt.  I’ll see you downstairs.”

I leave the bathroom without another word.   


	14. Chapter 14

Since I have been home from the war, I have traveled almost everywhere on my motorcycle. I missed that bike so much and it was a nice change from the musty Humvees over there.  At one point, I did get to use a Zero MMX motorcycle.  I wasn’t overly fond of how the bike felt under me, but they are significantly more subtle than a Harley Davidson.  A few times, when I couldn’t force myself to get any sleep, I would just go for a ride around the city.  Sometimes, I would go to Coney Island, take my shoes off and walk along the sand and wait for the sun to rise. 

The last time I did that was this morning.  This time, I did get some sleep, but when I woke around three-thirty, I couldn’t get back to sleep.  So I decided to take a ride to Coney Island.  I have a lot of memories of Coney Island.  When Bucky and I weren’t blowing all of our pocket money on trying to win prizes or overpriced snacks, we were on the beach.  One of Mom’s favorite pictures that I know she always keeps in her office at the hospital is of me and Bucky sitting a massive sand castle we built.

One thing I know she appreciates since I have been back is joining her for lunch at least once a week while she is at work.  I’m glad that I can provide a half-hour distraction from dealing with patients and other doctors who get on her nerves.  Just this week, she had to yell at a doctor for performing a risky surgery on a brain tumor without clearing it by her.  It went poorly and they had to call in the help of a diagnostician. 

I was almost worried that she wouldn’t have time for lunch with me, but she wasn’t going to let me leave with her pastrami sub and Diet Coke that easy.  She asked me if I have started looking for a job.  I was honest.  I haven’t yet.  I don’t know what to look for.  One thing that I did tell her was that I started painting again.  If anyone deserves to know, it’s her. 

She was thrilled to hear that I started painting again.  However, when she said that Natasha would feel happy to know that I’m putting her birthday gift to me to good use, I shut down a little.  I wasn’t keen on sharing my talent with her.  That’s when my lunch date with my mother started going downhill. 

She told me that I was being ridiculous.  She told me in uncharacteristically vulgar words that I am a fool for hiding my talent.  She acknowledged and insisted that she respects that there are paintings and sketches too personal for me to share.  Then she told me that I was being a “spiteful, immature little boy.”  She told me that I had utterly no reason for hiding my talent from Natasha.  My dislike for Natasha has been driving my mother insane, as she put it.

She thanked me for the sandwich, but she ended our lunch date early.  In fact, she threatened to have me escorted out of the hospital if she didn’t hear from the receptionist that I was gone in the next five minutes. 

So I left without another word.  Strangely, on my way home, I went by Natasha’s ballet studio.  I didn’t go in, but I did peek inside the window.  She had about ten students.  Seven girls and three boys and none of them looked older than twelve.  Having always seen her in jeans and maybe some shorts in the morning, seeing Natasha in ballet tights was interesting.  I know the shape of her legs very well from her ankles to her finely shaped thighs, but I have never seen her in tights. 

I didn’t want to be caught staring, but I couldn’t help myself.  Why was I so mesmerized?  I have seen women in tights before.  I have seen ballet dancers before.  So why was it so fascinating seeing Natasha in tights? 

I saw a boy stumble wobble in his step and I watched as Natasha went over to him, taking his hands and guiding his movements.  Her smile was kind and patient and I could only assume her words were that of encouragement.  In return, the boy smiled at her as he continued to learn his new movements. 

It was interesting seeing that side of Natasha.  I stood there long enough to notice something else as well.  I couldn’t help noticing the longing look she cast towards some of her students as they embraced their mothers at the end of their lesson.  Was it possible that she was jealous of them, somehow?  Did she long to have a child of her own?

I didn’t think too much of it as I headed for home.  I worked on getting ready for my date with Sharon.  The only one who was home with me at the time was Wanda.  She wasn’t very helpful in regards to my preparation.  I needed a woman’s opinion and she refused to offer it.  She wouldn’t even come out of her room.  She was practicing a skill, or so she said.  She wouldn’t say what that skill was. 

So now flash forward nine hours, I’m sitting alone in a French fondue restaurant my mother took me to for my high school graduation.  I was greeted by the manager, _Madam_ Emilie, with whom my mother and I go way back.  She was pleased to hear my French had improved.  She was also well aware of my recent service to my country. 

She gave me a small table that offered me a view of the stage where a jazz band was playing soft music.  She asked me when I should be expecting my date.  I was early, so I said that she should be there any minute.

That was an hour ago.  Since then, I’ve been slowly emptying a bottle of champagne.  I’m starting to wish that I was capable of getting drunk.  The only effect I’m getting from the champagne is a need to go to the bathroom.  More than once, my waiter, François has come by, offering me at least an appetizer.  _Madam_ Emilie has shot me a few sympathetic looks.

The place has a classy, 1940s feel that I really appreciate.  The round tables are draped in red or white tablecloths with ornate wooden chairs situated around them.  Around the room, there are booths that also have tablecloths.  In the middle of each table are wax candles instead of small lamps like other restaurants.  The candlelight combined with the soft lamplight from the ceiling make for a soft glow throughout the restaurant. 

The piano up on the stage _is_ a 1942 model.  It still plays beautifully and looks as if it’s brand-new.  I do know for a fact that _Madam_ Emilie has invited some very prominent jazz musicians to play here from time to time.  Tonight, she has invited a saxophone trio to accompany the pianist.  The improvisations are very inspirational.  I can paint something just by listening to the improvisations of jazz.  I can just paint something with no real image of what I want it to be.  Sometimes they just come out as abstract messes of color, but Mom—and even Bucky—always said that I could make a colorful mess look beautiful. 

If only I felt any inspiration for beautiful artwork at the moment.  

I feel so pathetic.  I’m dressed up on a blazer, a blue shirt, and black tie with my hair neatly combed. Around me, other couples are either huddled with their shoulders together or leaning across the table, whispering or giggling.  I’m sitting all alone waiting for a woman who has so far failed to show up.  It’s humiliating.

To occupy myself, at one point, I started doodling on a napkin.  I started a depiction of myself sitting all alone surrounded by displays of happiness and joy.  Other faces are full of laughter and joy, whereas I am just sitting alone staring pathetically at an empty wineglass. 

How long can I keep waiting?  The restaurant closes in an hour.  I’m fooling myself.  I see François and straighten up.  “ _Ah, François, can I just get the check please_?” I ask in French. 

François sighs, but nods quietly.  A couple of minutes later, he comes back with the check.  I tip generously for wasting their time.  I rise from my chair and walk out of the place, but not before I pass by _Madam_ Emilie. 

She offers me a sympathetic smile.  I’m tired of sympathy.  For any reason, I am growing to hate people looking at me like I’m some sort of damaged puppy. 

I smile back politely before leaving.

 

I walk along the streets of Brooklyn silently.  I don’t pay much attention to the people who pass by me in every direction.  I don’t even head home. 

The first date that I go on since being back from the war—actually first date ever, really—and I was stood up.  For a minute, I think to myself that not even having a new, healthy body can land me a successful date.  Did I just make a bad choice of woman?  Sharon is pretty, no doubt, but when I asked her about her, she shut down.  She stood me up and didn’t even bother to call me. 

Sometimes, I think I would just like to close my eyes and let my ears take in all of the cacophony of New York City.  The sounds of people, of cars, of children crying, of the occasional bird…I just want it all to drown out the noise in my head.  I just want a temporary distraction from the harsh reality of being back in the real world. 

There’s no routine, no need for a gun, and I don’t need to sleep thinking that any moment someone could attack.  But my mind doesn’t work like that.  Sometimes I just want to spit on the shield that was given to me in the war.  A useful weapon, but the star on it doesn’t feel worthy to be on my arm at times.  What was I fighting for?  I live in an ungrateful country that paid me to spill blood in one hand and ostracizes me in the other for doing just that

Now I’m home and I’m Steve Rogers the loser all over again.  I’m used to being a loser, an outcast, but now I don’t have Bucky.  I’m treated like scum but Bucky’s mother.  Can I really blame her?  The only piece of Bucky’s body they found was his arm.  I don’t know if his mother is aware of that.  All she seems to care about is that I came home instead of her son.

It’s obvious that plenty more women find me attractive.  Since I have been back, though, I have noticed some of them losing interest in me once they notice my awkwardness around them.

Besides my mother, the only consistent women in my life right now are Natasha and Wanda.  As I walk, the more I realize that I haven’t appreciated that as much as I should.  Neither of them has treated my awkwardness as a turnoff of sorts.  If anything, they laugh at my awkwardness.  They aren’t mocking me; sometimes I end up laughing along with them. 

As much as I am not fond of Natasha, I do enjoy her company the more I think about it.  I like the fact that I can be around her and not feel the slightest bit awkward.  That is, if I were to consider annoyance and sometimes frustration to be positive emotions. 

Eventually, I stop by a bar.  The place is called Josie’s.  It’s not the first bar that I have passed, but something in the window catches my eye.  “Live music weekend nights,” I read.  Well, that can’t be too bad, can it?  I sigh and head inside. 

This place is even more sparsely lit than the restaurant I just came from.  It doesn’t even smell as pleasant.  The air is thick with the smell of musk, beer, and whiskey.  This place must be a non-smoking bar.  I can appreciate that.  The first thing I notice is that I’m dressed much sharper than basically everyone in this place.  Hoping to look a little less formal, I remove my tie and unbutton the two topmost buttons of my shirt. 

The next thing I notice is that there is no live music at the moment.  Whatever is playing is coming from a jukebox.  Like the restaurant I came from, this place also has booths and round tables. These tables have no tablecloths and in the middle of them small lamps and little menu holders.  Near the bar, there are a few wall-mounted TV sets playing sports or news depending on which ones.  Towards the opposite side of the place where I came in, I do see a raised platform with an unoccupied microphone. 

If by live music, they mean karaoke, I’m not very excited to hear a tipsy person try to sing a song.  I am here now, so I might as well get myself something. I drank a lot of champagne, so I’m not really in the mood for alcohol.  It makes me feel like a walking contradiction.  I take a seat at the bar and a bartender asks me what I’m having.

“I’ll just have water,” I reply.  I don’t know if this bartender considers herself to be very perceptive, but she seems to tell that I have a lot on my mind.  She doesn’t even give me a strange look for not asking for alcohol.  I’m not in the mood.

At least in this place, it looks as if I’m not the only one who doesn’t have any company.  One gentleman is sitting alone at his table reading a book.  His feet are propped on another chair and his drink looks like it’s barely been touched.  I like that.  He’s just minding his own business. 

I entertain myself by watching the screen that is playing the news.  Trade negotiations between the United States and the African country of Wakanda are being discussed.  My shield is made of vibranium, which comes from Wakanda.  It’s an expensive material and many countries want to get their hands on it.  I know that several years ago a mercenary named Ulysses Klaue stole a hefty amount of vibranium from the Wakandans. 

I don’t know very much about Wakanda.  However, during the war I did run into the King’s son, T’Challa and a group of women.  They were part of an elite Wakandan death squad. From how I have seen them fight, especially with nontraditional weapons, they could give the Navy SEALs and Delta Squad a run for their money.  T’Challa and his team, led by a woman named Okoye were a huge help in dealing with the African sect of HYDRA I and the Howling Commandos had to deal with. 

Some of my teammates, Bucky included, learned the hard way that those Wakandan women weren’t easy to flirt with.  It caused a big laugh with the rest of us.  T’Challa and I quickly bonded and we promised each other not to be strangers. 

I told him that if he’s ever in New York to look me up.  Likewise, T’Challa said that someday I ought to visit Wakanda.  That was really saying something because Wakanda isn’t exactly known for letting outsiders in, if at all.

The trade negotiations seem to be quite intense.  The conversation was between the Secretary of State and Wakanda’s Minister of Foreign Affairs.  The United States is going to heroic lengths to start acquiring Wakandan vibranium.  The Wakandans aren’t comfortable with vibranium being used to create weapons. 

The material for my shield wasn’t acquired by the government, but rather through a private business transaction.   

Supporters for the trade agreement are arguing that it’s not Wakanda’s business what we do with vibranium.  They are also saying that American business would go through the roof.  Vibranium isn’t cheap to produce or sell.  No one has even started discussing what prices people will placed on vibranium. Those opposed say that vibranium could lead to a rise in crime, especially in black market sales.  People could end up selling vibranium to people or countries that aren’t in the trade agreement. 

In other news, people are wondering about what to do about the presence of extraterrestrials on Earth.  A small town in New Mexico was trashed recently by what people were describing as a fight between a “tall metal man and a Viking.”  A brief video was shown depicting a tall blond man with a red cape and a hammer.  He seemed to be conjuring lightning and he was fighting a metal man—a robot maybe?—that shot blasts of fire or whatever out of its face.

When talking to a few eyewitnesses, some thought it was a sign that that world was coming to an end.  I highly doubt that.  Others were praising the man with the hammer as some kind of hero.  The press didn’t have any sort of word from the government, but rumor has it they are starting to see a potential threat in the rise of what they are calling “enhanced individuals.” 

That notion worries me.  I _am_ an enhanced individual.  What does that mean for me exactly?

I’m not given much opportunity to mull over the idea when something else grabs my attention.  Someone has started playing music.  I don’t turn around just yet, but I do recognize the song.  It’s Jeff Buckley’s “Hallelujah.”

Only when I hear the voice do I really perk up my ears.  I know that voice.  Surely enough, when I turn around, it’s…

“Natasha,” I say quietly. 

She’s dressed in dark jeans with high-heeled boots over them that almost reach her knees.  Her top is a black sleeveless business-like blouse with a few top buttons undone.  It’s not enough to make an overwhelming display of her cleavage, but enough to get a man excited for what’s underneath.  Recently, I saw her putting blonde streaks in her hair.  Now they make an interesting display as she has them in a loose braid draped around her shoulder with a few loose bangs framing her face.  I also see her earrings.  As if she chose them specifically for this occasion, they are a pair of treble clef charmed earrings. 

If I know anything about music, the timber of her voice is very low.  It gives the song she’s playing a darker tone to it that I find oddly enjoyable.   

I know she plays piano—and quite beautifully too, though I don’t tell her enough—but I had no idea she plays guitar as well.  I know that she's left-handed, but I've never actually met a left-handed guitarist.  They aren't very common.  The guitar she’s playing is a heavily beat-up instrument with some of its finish faded or chipped away and the neck is very weathered.  It’s a guitar that has been through quite a bit, but it is still playing beautifully. 

Somewhere into the second verse, I realize that Natasha is looking right at me.  I stare right back at her.  She doesn’t stop playing.  She continues the song, though perhaps with a new vigor.  Our eyes never leave each other and I’m starting to feel that she is singing just for me, as if everyone else in the room has disappeared. 

I’m transfixed by her voice.  I couldn’t tune her out or walk away if I tried.  Surely there are other singers with a wider range, but I can’t help feeling joy at the sound of her voice accompanied by the chime of her guitar. 

The song ends and I realize I am applaud with everyone else.

Weirdly, Natasha blushes at the praise she is receiving.  I have seen her blush before, but for a woman who is arguably as intense as me, if not more so, it’s just so adorable. 

“Thank you,” she says with a giggle.  “What do you say, people?  Ready for one more?”  I wince at the loud cheers of approval.  Natasha laughs and she rises from her stool.  She removes the tie from her braid and swishes her hair loose, causing a few wolf whistles and catcalls. 

Why do I want to hurt each and every one of them?

Natasha starts stomping a beat.  Soon the whole bar is joining in and I start clapping softly to the rhythm as well. 

_I followed my heart into the fire_

_Got burned, got broken down by desire_

_I tried, I tried_

  _But the smoke in my eyes_

_Left me blurry,_

_Blurry and blind_

The song continues and backtrack is added.  However, she doesn’t start playing the guitar yet until the chorus begins.  It’s…amazing.  She’s amazing.  I can almost swear that her whole aura is glowing as she plays the song which I can deduce is called “Set it All Free.” Then when the solo comes, my eyes are glued to her fingers.  They are moving with such speed and precision as I have never seen up close before.  Surely, there must be guitarists who are much more proficient than she, but watching her play puts them all to shame in my mind.  I have never been to a rock concert before.  I have been to a jazz symphony before.

For a minute, I think that Natasha gets completely lost in what she is doing, even as she sings.  When the song ends with a blistering flourish, it looks as if it comes as a wakeup call for her.  The room is quiet for a second, as if they too have to regather their senses.  Natasha looks at the crowd nervously. 

“Uh, you guys okay?” she asks. 

In response, the place erupts in cheers.  I wince against it as the acoustics in this place seem to make it feel louder than it really is. 

It seems Natasha has finished her set as she is dismantling her gear.  From the looks of it, the tall speakers around her belong to the bar as she just packs up her guitar and a case full of foot pedals.  I finally get up from my chair and weave my way through the crowd and tables to see her.  These people must be accustomed to hearing her perform here.  None of them are approaching her beyond the occasional “Hey, that was a great set,” or something to that effect. 

I reach her and we end up face to face as she is carrying her guitar case and pedal case.

For a minute to two, neither of us says a word. 

“That was…amazing,” I eventually tell her. 

Natasha blushes.  “Thank you,” she says, looking away.  “I’ve been working on that song for a while and I thought I was ready to perform it.”

I raise an eyebrow.  “You’re talking to the man who had no idea that you even played guitar.”

That drives a smirk out of her.  “I’m glad that I can still keep some things private.  How was your date with Sharon?”

My smile disappears and I look away.  “It never happened.”

“Did you chicken out?”

I return my gaze to Natasha with a scowl.  “No, she stood me up, thank you very much.”

Natasha’s humor disappears and she suddenly looks very ashamed of herself.  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

I look away again.  “Don’t be,” I say bitterly.  “To tell you the truth, I think I would have been more surprised if she actually showed up.”

“Oh, don’t sell yourself so short,” Natasha admonishes.  The optimism in her voice almost makes me want to hug her.

“You didn’t know me before the war, Natasha,” I remind her.  “None of the girls I met—which were mostly through my best friend, Bucky—wanted to date a guy they might step on.  I think I’m still very much that little guy.  More than most people give me credit for.”

“Oh, well if _I_ planned a date with you, I would never stand you up.”

I cock my head at the redhead.  “Is that so?”

“Not unless I had a damn good reason,” she replies with a warm smile.  “And I would call you to say that I was running late or that I was unable to make it.”

I take a long time studying her.  She strikes me as someone who has more secrets than she knows what to do with, but she seems quite sincere.  That or she is very good at _appearing_ to be sincere.  Either way, I think I want to take a leap of faith with her.  I’d like to see if she really is as sincere as she is pretending to be, if she is pretending at all. 

“There’s a pizza joint in Harlem that I really like,” I explain. “Do you want to share a pizza with me?  Maybe you can tell me more about that guitar you play.” 

Natasha’s smile is so wide that it almost hurts to look at it.  “I’d like that very much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's been about a month since Endgame ripped our hearts out of our chests and stomped on them. Well, I guess some of us are still going along. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter!
> 
> Oh, and in an alternate universe Natasha was a teenage porcupine who shortened her name to Ash. So why can't Natasha also be a guitarist?


	15. Chapter 15

If someone had told me this morning that I would be asking Natasha to join me for pizza, I would’ve told that person that they were crazy.  Yet I’m on my way with her to Harlem.  It’s a strange turn of events.  I was stood up by my date and then I found myself running into Natasha.  She was playing music, no less.

So Natasha is not only a ballet instructor, she is also a musician.  Just when I thought I had her figured out, she surprised me.  I’m not even sure if I had her figured out in the first place.  She’s a mystery.  The more I look, the more I see.  It would be easy to say that she is just a beautiful woman.  It would be easy to just list off all her features, or to sketch a picture of her.  But the depths of her, the chasms of her seem to have no bottom. 

She has more secrets, I can tell.  It excites me.  It frightens me.  It irritates me.  In the back of my mind, it gives me a similar sense of dread that I spent day and night with when I was in the war.  A part of me is afraid of what I will find if I let myself continue to unravel her.  I feel like I should get out of the car at the next red light and run as far away as I can. 

But I don’t.  I know she is not harmless, but still I’m taking a chance that defies all of my sense of reason.    

I haven’t actually ridden in her Corvette with her before.  It’s a surprisingly comfortable car.  I don’t really have a high opinion on sports cars.  Maybe, it’s just the fact that I haven’t had a good experience with them.  I have ridden with Bucky in his old GTO before and I distinctly remember vomiting on his dashboard. 

I felt awful.  In the ensuing weeks, it just became inside joke between the two of us.  Steve Rogers and cars designed to travel fast don’t agree with each other. 

But I’m not small and frail anymore.  Maybe it’s just the memory of that bad experience that is making me uneasy.  Combining being in a car with Natasha and being in a sports car, I’m sure that I am a big picture of discomfort. 

“I’m not going to bite you, you know,” assures Natasha.

And just like that, I am snapped back to reality.  “Beg your pardon?”

Natasha laughs as she takes on hand off the wheel to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.  “You’re tenser than one of my guitar strings and don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve been trying heroically to keep your eyes off me.”

I open my mouth, but no sound comes out.  I clear my throat.  “It’s rude to stare,” I explain, looking out my window.

“Stare?” repeats Natasha.  “You’re trying to avoid staring at me?”  The amusement in her voice is not making me feel any better.  “Is it a good stare or a bad stare?”

That question catches me off-guard.  “What do you mean?”

“Am I worth a second glance in a good way or a bad way?”  I turn around and look at her.  She braves taking her eyes off the road for just a second and I see her expression.  I see that it’s a genuine question.  With that one question, she seems more like a woman than ever before. 

I smile a little.  “I’d say in a good way.”

I wonder what colors I would use to paint a self-portrait, or just a depiction, of discomfort.  Facial expressions only go so far to really convey the mood of a painting.  A depiction of discomfort doesn’t even have to be in the form of a portrait.  I’m not sure what colors I would use, but maybe the strokes of my paintbrush would be wobbly.  Instead of smooth, confident strokes of my paintbrushes, they could be fat and uneven.  I consider myself a confident artist, but I know how my make myself look _unconfident_ in my art.

I don’t even know why I feel uncomfortable.

“Park in this lot,” I direct.  Natasha follows my direction.  It’s the closest parking garage to where we are going without having to pay a parking meter.  We’re both capable of paying parking meters, but they are very annoying.  All she needs to do with this one is to grab a ticket so that she can get us back out when we are ready to head home. 

Once we leave the parking garage, I start leading her towards the restaurant.  We are silent for a minute, but then she touches me, causing me to jump. 

She frowns up at me.  “What’s wrong?”

“What’re you doing?” I ask.

“I’m sorry, I was just slipping my hand around your arm,” explains Natasha. 

Now I feel really stupid.  I look away to hide my embarrassment. 

I feel her hand again and she slowly eases it around my arm.  Gradually I relax to her touch.  Eventually, turn my face towards her and her hand.  She looks right back at me.  Her smile is very disarming; it’s not long before I realize that I’m returning that smile.  I won’t admit it, but I like the feel of her hand around my arm.

We don’t say anything on our way to the restaurant.  The only sound between us is the clacking of our shoes against the sidewalk and cars as they rush to and fro.  One of the reasons I enjoy coming to Harlem is because of the music.  On our way to the restaurant, we pass a group of gentleman playing a saxophone, a guitar, and an upright bass.  I love jazz. 

“Natasha?”

“Yes?” she answers. 

“Do you play jazz?” I ask as I look down at her. 

She smiles.  “Sometimes,” she replies.  “I took jazz theory in college, but I was more interested in a classical approach.  I incorporate jazz into my own music to a certain extent, but I enjoy listening to jazz more than I do playing it.  Does that make sense?”

I nod.  “I think so.” I think of how I can add to that conversation.  “There are certain forms of art that I enjoy looking at, but I don’t see myself using much.”

“Like what?”

“I have great admiration for cubism, but for some reason I have always struggled to achieve a good example of cubism,” I explain, looking away towards some cars as they pass by.   “I’ve used cubism in a handful of my paintings, but I hate them all.  They’re terrible.”

“For some reason, I very much doubt that.”

I turn my gaze towards her.  She meets my suspicious gaze with a tight-lipped smile.  The way her cheeks rise with her smiles, I just want to pinch them.  “And why do you say that?” I challenge.  “You’ve never seen my art other than that pastel ocean view sunset that my mother hangs in the living room.”

Natasha’s smile widens.  “That pastel painting is gorgeous.”

I miss a step and nearly lose my balance.  I hear Natasha stifle a giggle and I have to look away to hide my embarrassment.  _This is a mistake_ , I think to myself. 

“I made that pastel in tenth grade art class,” I say stubbornly.  “I really don’t know why my mother still keeps it up.”  Before I realize it, Natasha is standing in front of me, blocking my path. 

“I apologize for not being sorry in advance for this,” she says sweetly.  Before I can ask what she means by that, she reaches back and then slaps me across the face.  Hard. 

“ _OW_!” I exclaim.  It takes maybe a minute or two for my vision to clear.  When it does I meet Natasha’s gaze.  I fight the urge to reach up and massage my cheek.  “Good God!”  It’s embarrassing enough that a few people stopped for just a minute at the commotion.  “That’s it, I’m going home.”  I turn around and call a cab.

“Yeah, go ahead!” shouts Natasha.  “Maybe on your way home you can think about how much you’re big, sad, sore downer!  Almost every time I try to give you a compliment, you brush it off as if you think you’re unworthy of it.  I think that that pastel in the living room is beautiful.  There more experienced adults who can’t even manage something as exquisitely detailed as that piece of art.  So, go ahead!  Go home and whine about being stood up and continue your ‘woe is me’ parade!”

She’s breathing hard, not caring about some of the people around us.  “Or you can take me to this pizza place that you offered to take me to and just let yourself have a good time for once since I’ve met you.”  A cab pulls up, but I don’t get in immediately.  “It’s your choice, Rogers,” she says calmly.

I take a long moment’s consideration.  Eventually, I wave off the taxi and it heads off.  Surprisingly, Natasha doesn’t give any sort of triumphant look.  She smiles, but there’s nothing smug about it.  I fall into step next to her. 

She slips her hand around my arm again and I don’t even cringe.

“Have you ever actually been on a date before?” asks Natasha. 

“This isn’t a date,” I insist.

“Just answer the question.”

“I…uh…I,” I begin hesitantly.

“You’ve never been on a date?” she asks, sounding flabbergasted.

“Didn’t I kind of already tell you that?” I ask.

“You told me that the only girls you met were through your best friend,” explains Natasha.  “It just surprises me that you’ve never been on a date.”

“You make it sound like such a bad thing,” I observe.

“No, that’s not what I mean,” argues Natasha.  “Don’t run off on me for saying this, but I’ve been around you long enough to know that you can be quite sweet when you want to be.”

“I…” I don’t know how to respond to that.  “What do you want me to be?”

“How about a friend?” Natasha suggests. 

I stare down at her.  She smiles up at me.  I chuckle softly.  “Well there’s a chance you might be in the wrong business, Romanov.”

She laughs.  “We’ll see about that, now there is something that we should do about your look.”

I look down at myself.  “What?”

She detaches herself from me and blocks my path…again.  She scratches her chin thoughtfully. 

“Please don’t slap me again,” I plead before I can help myself.

She just smirks up at me.  “Okay, the tie has to go.”  Before I can protest, she starts undoing my tie.  I took it off in the bar earlier, but I put it back on while we were in her car.  I stand frozen as she removes the tie from my neck and undoes my top button.  She then puts the tie around her own neck and starts tying it…or tries to.  I give it a few seconds, feeling mildly entertained as she tries to tie the accessory around her neck.

“Do you know how to tie a tie?” I ask, bemused.

Natasha drops the tie, which is currently in a very awkward looking knot.  “No I guess I don’t.”

 _It’s a miracle!_ I silently rejoice.  For once she is the awkward one instead of me!  I guess I should take pity on her.  “Would you like some help with that?” I offer, daring to take a step closer. 

She gives the vaguest of nods.  “ _Da_.”

I can’t believe I’m smiling.  “Okay so first of all, you want the fatter end to be longer than the skinnier side,” I explain, taking both ends of the tie.  Normally, I don’t care for black on black, but for some reason it works on her.  “Then you leave the skinny side right where it is.”  That side is level with her sternum and I realize that my fingers have slightly grazed her breast.  “Then you take the larger side and you wrap it once around the skinnier side.  Then you wrap it around the right side of the collar, bring it around and do the same to the left side.  Finally, you wrap what’s left all the way around and slip it through the hole.  Then you adjust it, until it’s snug against your neck.”  I take the completed tie and tighten it.  Her top three buttons are unbuttoned, so I only adjust it far enough so that it doesn’t look awkward around her bare chest. 

“There you have it, a full Windsor tie,” I announce.  I meet her eyes and see she is completely frozen in place.

We’re close enough that I can feel the heat of her breath.  It’s minty with a hint of fruitiness.  It’s so intoxicating. 

Then she says something I don’t understand. 

“I beg your pardon?” I apologize. 

“ _Spa-see-boh_ ,” Natasha enunciates. 

“ _Spasibo_ ,” I repeat. 

Natasha grins.  “You’re a quick learner.  It means ‘thank you’ in Russian.”

“Maybe you can teach me more of the language sometime?”

Natasha’s grin widens.  “Only if the pizza at this place you’re taking me to is delicious.”

I don’t hide my confidence. “Then I don’t have anything to worry about.”

She puts her hands on her hips and raises an eyebrow.  “Now that is a strange sight.”

My brows furrow in puzzlement.  “What?”

“Confidence,” the redhead replies.  “It looks really good on you.”

“That tie looks even better on you,” I blurt out.

Natasha blushes as she averts her gaze, one of her hands coming up to fiddle with the tie.  “Let’s just get to pizza place.”

We talk much the rest of the way to the restaurant.  I would have to admit, I enjoy the feel of Natasha’s hand around my arm.  Not only does it just feel incredibly good, it also makes me feel like I’m worth the attention from the opposite sex.  Several instances, I feel tempted to put my own hand over hers.  Other times, I find myself feeling sad.  I never had this kind of attention growing up.  I’ve never been on a date unless I was tagging along with Bucky on a double date.  Even then, I couldn’t get a young lady’s attention if I tried. 

What was so inherently wrong with a ninety-five-pound asthmatic?  What could I have done differently to earn a young lady’s attention?  What could I have done to make a young woman overlook how small and frail I was?  I’m going to dinner with a young woman, something I never thought would have happened in my wildest dreams.  

If Bucky were here, he would be giving me that stupid smirk and fighting the temptation to actually say he told me so.

Why am I even thinking all of these sad thoughts?  Don’t I have every right to feel a bit more cheerful?  Maybe I have just spent too long not _allowing_ myself to be cheerful. 

As I see the restaurant, I think to myself that this might be a good time to start. 

“Before we go in, I have to ask, do you like swing music?” I ask. 

Natasha gives me a skeptical look, but says, “Absolutely.”

“Then welcome to Swingeroni,” I open the wooden doors for her.  “It’s a portmanteau of ‘swing’ and ‘pepperoni’,” I explain, registering her raised eyebrow. 

Natasha chuckles, but she steps inside.  I follow in after her and my ears are welcomed by the sound of swing music.  Stepping into the foyer, I can see the stage.  I smile as I recognize a number of the faces playing their respective instruments.

Even though it’s late, a good number of people still come to this place to dance and order food.  Sometimes, I think it’s an unofficial nightclub.

“Why do I feel like I just stepped into 1941?” asks Natasha over the music and commotion.

I take time to consider my answer.  In truth, this place is very much set up like something from the forties.  It’s been around since the twenties.  After the stock market crash, this place barely held itself together.  It lost much of its poise and ended up being a place to feed the homeless. Eventually, it was reopened as a pizzeria and swing bar.  Since then, not much has changed in terms of decoration.  Same mellow lighting, same shaded lamps on the round tables with white tablecloths, same dance floor and semicircular bar. 

One major change, however, is that this place prohibits smoking.  This place might have forties’ nights, one of which Bucky dragged me out to, but no smoking is allowed in this place.

I could explain all of this to Natasha, but instead I just say, “Sometimes.”

“Cryptic looks weird on you,” she comments.

I smile.  “I think I’m beginning to enjoy hearing you call me weird.”

“Well whether that continues or not depends on whether you continue to act weird,” Natasha reasons.

“Steve Rogers!” interrupts a raspy, though cheerful voice.

“Reggie Halls,” I return as my eyes fall on the fifty-year-old black gentleman.  “You’re looking great.”

Even post-serum the man still towers over me and his arms are visibly bigger.  I’m most definitely stronger, but the man still looks like he is part-bear.

“I could say the same thing, paintbrush,” laughs Reggie.

“Paintbrush?” repeats Natasha.

“I was so skinny back then,” I explain.  “I painted, so it seemed more appropriate than ‘twig’.”

Natasha laughs.

“Why is that funny?”

She thumps my chest playfully.  “Oh don’t look so hurt!  It’s just that when I picture a paintbrush, I pictured you being skinny with longer hair.”

“You know he _did_ have long hair at one point,” Reggie cuts in.

“Reggie!” I yell, scandalized. 

“Really?” asks Natasha, completely ignoring my outburst.  “Well, you’re going to have to tell me about that sometime.”

Reggie laughs again.  “Oh, I’ve known Steve since he was five; there are lots of stories I can tell you about him.”  He clears his throat.  “And I don’t think we’ve met, Miss…?”

“Just call me Natasha,” she says, offering her hand. 

Reggie regards her with utter fascination as he takes her hand and shakes it.  “Oh my goodness, Steve!” he marvels.  “Where did you find yourself such a lovely lady?”

I blush furiously as Natasha lets out a very un-Natasha-like giggle.  “Uh-uh…I…” I stammer.

“I’m one of Sarah’s tenants,” Natasha explains. 

“Ah, how is that woman?”

Why do I hear a solemn note in his question?

“She’s doing great,” replies Natasha.  “Even better since Steve has been home.”

Reggie seems to accept her answer.  A wide grin spreads across his features as his gaze returns to me.  “And now you’ve invited this woman on a date to my establishment?”

“This isn’t a date!” I protest at the same time that Natasha says, “Yes he has.”

Our contradictory answers only seem to amuse Reggie further.  “Whatever you say, kids.  Let me lead you to a table.”

He turns around and we follow after him.  He leads us to a table close to the dance floor that offers us an equal view of the dancers and the band.  “Now, drinks?”

“A bottle of your best vodka?” I blurt out.  Why did I just ask for vodka?

Reggie smirks.  “Anything for a veteran.”  He walks off as I pull out a seat for Natasha.

I can’t tell if she is surprised or amused by my impulsive chivalry.  If there is anything I can blame it on, it would be years of listening to my mother nag me on how to be a gentleman.  I take a seat across from Natasha. 

“Now, you were going to tell me a bit more about that guitar of yours?”

Natasha clears her throat as she gathers her hair into a ponytail and drapes it around her shoulder.  “Do you want the long version or the short version?”

“How about the short version and then I’ll decide if I want to hear the long version?”

Natasha raises her eyebrow again.  I’m beginning to love that expression.  “The short version is that it’s the last thing good thing that Alexei ever gave me.”

In that moment, Reggie returns with the bottle of vodka and a pair of menus.

“Okay, the long version,” I invite as I uncork the bottle of vodka.

Natasha waits to tell her story until after we order.  Since she didn’t know the place, I order for us.  I order a large wood-fired pizza with pepperoni, banana peppers, and sausages.  Natasha requests a minimal amount of cheese.

Now that I think of it, I’ve never seen her eat cheese.  Bucky used to tell me that you can never trust a girl who doesn’t like cheese.  It was meant to be a joke, but I don’t think a dislike for cheese is a good reason for mistrust.

After the waiter leaves, Natasha clears her throat. 

“I didn’t think I would be talking about Alexei in a mildly positive light again so soon, but here I go,” she begins with a mirthless laugh.  “So, I was still dancing ballet when Alexei and I met.  However, a twisted ankle ended my professional ballet career.  Don’t apologize,” she adds quickly as I try to speak.  “I was very depressed about it at first.  At one point, I even tried to throw my ballet shoes in the trash.  A week later, I found my ballet shoes in a box full of some of my ballet memorabilia that Alexei had put together. 

“It didn’t really make me feel better at the time, but Alexei wasn’t giving up.  He also knew about the piano lessons I took growing up.  I had grown quite proficient at it, but we couldn’t afford a keyboard at the time. Yet, somehow Alexi found enough money to buy me a beat-up Fender Stratocaster with an amplifier the size of a large toaster to go with it.  I thought he was crazy that he would spend ten thousand rubles on an ugly old guitar instead of saving it so that we could have a microwave or even a better TV set.  I think that amounts to about a hundred and fifty-some dollars. 

“Anyway, he said he had seen me playing with guitars at the local music shop and he saw this guitar.  He was originally looking for chairs that we could put around our little dinner table, but instead he bought that guitar.  To bring life to that Bryan Adams song, I quite literally played that guitar until my fingers bled.  Alexei could be quite the drama king, so I kept my sore fingertips to myself.  Otherwise he would have gotten rid of that guitar.  I grew on me after a while.

“Unfortunately when Alexei’s life starting taking a turn for the worst, he blamed himself for a lot of silly things.  He started blaming our problems on things that had nothing to do with his misfortune.  He thought he spent too much money on stupid things, chief among things that he bought for me.  It didn’t matter that I had become decent at the guitar, he started hating the object.  One day, I came home and he had tried to set it on fire.

Natasha sighs as she takes a long gulp of vodka.  “It amazes me that that guitar still plays so well.  It amazes me even more that I can even bring myself to pick it up at all.  Your mother used to tell me that picking it up and playing it is me channeling part of my grief that is Alexei and turning it into something good.”

“Like taking a sour lemon and turning it into lemonade,” I muse.  “Mom used to say that a lot.”

Natasha smiles as she averts her eyes.  Some loose strands of her hair obscure her eyes as she does so.  If only I could bring myself to tell her how much I’m starting to enjoy her crude hairdos.  “You know the first time your mother ever said that to me, I asked if she could show me how to make fresh-squeezed lemonade.”

I can’t help smiling.  “She always has made great fresh-squeezed lemonade.”

“You wouldn’t have wanted to try my first attempts,” laughs Natasha.  “Either they were too sour or too sugary.”

“Everything takes practice.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

A length of silence follows.  Well, more just a moment of not talking.  This place is never silent.  Even if it’s not a big band night, there’s always one musician.  Eventually, our pizza arrives.  Our waiter sets the pizza in the middle of the table and I watch as Natasha’s eyes light up.

She inhales.  “That does smell delicious.”  She takes her plate and starts filling it with a few slices.  I do the same.  “Are you serious?”

I halt.  “What?”

She flicks her eyes towards my hand.  “Are you seriously about to eat that pizza with a fork?”

“I always eat pizza with a fork when I come here,” I explain, a little defensively.  Plus, she should know that I eat pizza with my hands sometimes.  I ate pizza with my hands a few days ago when Mom ordered pizza on movie night. 

Natasha raises an eyebrow.  “Put down the silverware and use your hands,” she orders.

“This pizza can be a little flimsy,” I protest.

Natasha picks up a slice of her pizza and takes a large bite out of it.  There’s a noticeable crunch as she does so.  “Mm, that is delicious,” she moans.  “See, worrywart, not so flimsy at all.  Put down the silverware.”    

I shoot her as dark of a look as I can must as I set down my fork and knife.  Clearly unsatisfied, I then take a slice and take a dramatic bite out of it. 

“See, now that wasn’t so hard now, was it?” asks Natasha. 

“Keep up that smug smile, I might just slap it off,” I hiss.

Natasha’s smile widens as she takes another bite.  “That sounds fun.  But first…” she says leaning forward, waving her half-eaten slice of pizza in front of me like a teacher’s pointer, “tell me a little something about you.  I’ve already told you something about me, so it’s your turn.  Could you…” her humor disappears and turns into something a little tender.  “Could you tell me about your friend, Bucky?”

I gasp as I take another bite of pizza.  I search her eyes and see that she has put a lot of thought into asking me that question.  No one would ever be more surprised than me saying this.  “What do you know?”

Natasha’s expression doesn’t change.  I thought she would at least have a victorious glint in her eyes, but no.  “What was he like?”

I sit back in my chair.  “Whew, woman, you had to ask _that_ question.”

Natasha pouts into her sip of vodka.  “I’m not asking you to write a book about him.”

I scoff.  “There are a few parts of his obituary that I would disagree with.”

“I never read his obituary.”

“I did,” I mutter, not meeting her eyes.  “His obituary painted him as a model citizen prior to his service in the Army.” 

“Was he not a model citizen?” asks Natasha.

I actually laugh.  There’s something I didn’t think I would do.  “If he was a model citizen, then I was a healthy boy who never needed an inhaler.  In fact, right before he was deployed, he told me not to do anything stupid until he got home.”

“What did you say?”

I smile fondly at the memory.  “I said, ‘How can I?  You’re taking all the stupid with you’.”

Natasha laughs at that as she takes one last slice of pizza.  She’s already eaten half of it.  “Anyone ever tell you that you can be a little bit sassy?”

“Probably not as often as they should,” I freely admit. 

“So what kind of trouble would Bucky get into?” continues Natasha.

“Well, between the two of us, I think I got into more fights than he did,” I explain.  “Sometimes he got into fights, but usually the fights he got into would be when I was fighting someone.  As much as I hated it, he would sometimes get into fights with kids who were mean to me.”

“Maybe he was just standing up for you,” Natasha points out. 

“I know; we always stood up for each other.  I just felt inadequate because sometimes I seemed too small to stand up for myself.”

“Did you ever take a martial arts class?”

Now there’s a bitter memory.  “I wanted to sign up for boxing, or even karate, but all the instructors were worried I’d have an asthma attack.  But still, I got into _a lot_ of fights.  Mostly just brawls in alleyways with guys who were all bigger than me.  I got beat up almost every time unless Bucky came to my rescue.”

“Did you have something against walking away?” asks Natasha. 

“I don’t like bullies,” I reply.  “I was always picking fights with bullies.  One time I got kicked out of a movie theater because I kept telling some big guy to shut up and quit ruining the movie for everyone else.  I would try to throw a few punches, but mostly _I_ got punched over and over again.”  A soft bit of amusement finds its way into my lips.  “It always amazes my mother that I still have all my teeth intact.”  Natasha smiles at that comment.  “Anyway, I always got back up.  And usually Bucky was around to come to my help.

“It drove his mother insane.  I remember overhearing her tell him that if he kept getting into fights that he would end up getting nowhere respectable in life.”  I smile again.  “The only fights of his that she seemed to ever be aware of were the ones that involved me.  Always telling me that I need to learn to stand up for myself or to avoid fights altogether.”

“Maybe she had a point,” suggests Natasha.

I shake my head.  “I know what you’re thinking and that wasn’t her thought process.  Becca Barnes could be a very sweet, caring woman, but even she could never see past how small I was.  Yet she was always great friends with my mother.”

“Well some people never learn to not judge a book by its cover,” says Natasha.  “A cover can be a lot of things, but ultimately it’s the content that matters.  Sometimes it’s a good book, sometimes it’s not.”

“And what am I?” I ask.  “Am I a good book or a bad book?”

Natasha winks at me.  “I’m still deciding, but I’m starting to enjoy what I’ve read so far.  What about me?” 

“You’re more of a Russian doll than a book,” I reply.  “I feel like every time I unravel you I find different. Tonight I unraveled you and I found a musician.” 

“I _am_ Russian,” Natasha reminds me, raising an eyebrow.  “Am I a doll?”

I roll my eyes.  “You’re a beautiful woman, but I’ll never call anyone a doll in that sense.”

The redhead before me seems to mull that over as she finishes her vodka.  “I don’t know if I should feel offended or flattered.”

“That’s your choice,” I reply ambiguously.

The band starts to play a slow song and Natasha smiles.  She rises from her chair and I sit back frozen as she rounds the table to come stand by me.  She offers her hand.  “I think you owe me a dance, soldier.”

If she wanted cause my ears and cheeks to redden so quickly she could have just kissed me or spanked me.  “I-I beg your pardon?”

“May I…have this…dance?”  Natasha enunciates.  “You know where you take me in your arms and we move our bodies in a rhythmic pattern to follow the…?”

“I know what a dance is,” I tell her, my annoyance rising.

“Good, so please get off your ass and dance with me.”

“I can’t…” I begin, but then I grumble.  “I don’t know how to dance.”

Natasha smiles brightly.  “I don’t really care. I want to dance with _you_.  I can teach you to dance.  So I am going to ask you for the last time. Steve Rogers, may I have this dance?” She extends her hand. 

I look from her hand to her eyes and back again.  “My hands are greasy,” I protest weakly.

“So are mine,” the woman says quietly.

I see that there is no way for me to talk myself out of this.  I sigh heavily and take her hand.  I stand up and let her lead me onto the dance floor.  When we reach a spot, Natasha turns around and faces me.

“Now, put your hand on my waist and your other hand…” Natasha takes my hand and she puts her other hand on my shoulder.  “Now I’ll lead for a minute and listen to my instructions.” 

I obey and she leads me in a simply waltz.  My movements are little jerky and I can’t seem to stop staring at my feet.  However, Natasha feels so _right_ in my hands.  Her waist fits perfectly in my hand and her blouse is so soft.  Now that I know she’s a musician, I can’t help noticing her calloused fingers.  Being left-handed, her left hand isn’t as calloused as her right hand.

“Dip me,” she says.

“What?” I ask. 

“Dip me,” she repeats.

Not knowing what else to do, I listen.  I’m not even sure if I do the maneuver right.  That becomes quite clear when I lose my grip on her and she falls. 

She yelps then hits the ground with an _oof_. 

I thought I would have been afraid, but I just laugh.  “And here I was worried about stepping on your foot.”

She grumbles up at me.  “Help me up, genius.”

I’m way ahead of her as I grasp her hand and help her to her feet.  I don’t even seem to care about some of the people who have stopped in mid-dance to stare. 

She straightens herself up.  “Maybe we’ll save the dip for later.  Okay, now it’s your turn to lead me.”

That’s not happening.  “Nat, I can’t…”

“Did you just call me ‘Nat’?” she asks, smiling.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I…”

She holds up a hand.  “Don’t apologize.  I like the sound of my nickname from you.  Now,” she says coming up to me and taking my hand and putting her other hand on my shoulder.  “You’re a quicker learner than you give yourself credit for.  Lead me.”

“I think you have more faith in me than I deserve,” I observe.  Still I tentatively start leading her in the dance she showed me.  Amazingly, I never step on her toes, let alone stare at my feet.  I just look her straight in the eye.  She stares right back.  Meadows, forests, grass, plants, emeralds, the ocean, anything I can think of that could possibly be green as I gaze into her eyes.  I notice how close we are as we dance.  Then I do something very impulsive. 

I don’t know how I manage to work it into our dance, but I twirl her.  She takes the hint and twirls a few times.  Her hair flies in all directions as she spins.  Finally, when she’s back in my grasp, she looks a little breathless. 

“Well,” she gasps.  “Aren’t you just full of surprises?”

“I think sometimes I even surprise myself,” I admit.

“How many more surprises can I expect from you?”

The song ends and Reggie announces that the place is closing.  “I’ll let you drive me home.”

“Is that so?” the redhead asks.  “What will happen when we get home?”

I smile, probably the first true smile that I have ever given her.  “I don’t know.  But I’d like to try this again sometime.”

Even though the music has stopped, we are still swaying slightly in the middle of the dancefloor. Natasha puts her head against my chest and I can feel her smile.  “I’d like that too, Steve.”

I might never tell her this, but for one brief moment, standing all alone in this closing restaurant, I actually feel content.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the hefty chapter. I hope you all enjoyed it. Up next, there will be more Nat and Peter.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Nat PoV chapter for everyone.

“One, and two,” I count off as I go through my routine with my students.  I watch them meticulously through the mirror.  This is one of my intermediate classes, so I don’t have to instruct them as much as my beginners, but I still have to keep an eye on each of them.  I don’t hold classes on Sundays and Saturdays. 

For the most part, my students in this class are very good.  I take care in how I teach my students.  Sometimes I have to cut students, which always hurts, but not everyone can dance ballet.  Most of the students I cut don’t even make it to intermediate.  Thankfully, I haven’t had to cut anyone this month.

I love teaching ballet.  I reach the point where I’m ready to put the whole routine together.  My students follow my every movement like they are shadows of me.  I am well aware of my own movements, but at the same time I am still watching each of them.  I can tell which ones are confident and who are more hesitant, unsure of their movements.  I always do my best to offer individualized training, helping my students as best I can, but I can’t always do that.  If I do that too much, it wouldn’t be fair to everyone else. hai

I check the clock and it’s time to call it quits.  “Alright, I think that’s enough for today, class,” I announce.  I allow myself a smile my students and their parents break into applause.  A little bit of praise every day is always nice.

I stand back a little as my students go to their parents.  All of them are between the ages of twelve and the oldest is fifteen.  I even see some of them massaging some of their limbs.  I know the feeling.  Ballet can be a beautiful dance form, but it can also have a negative effect on the body.  I should know.  I had a pretty abusive ballet instructor. 

I try my best to teach the dance in a nicer, more uplifting way.  My smile continues as my class starts thanking me for the lesson, addressing me as Ms. Rushman.  I don’t know why I chose that alias for my dance studio.  Sometimes I have no reason for choosing names I choose.  What I do know, is that it’s safer for everyone and myself to not use my real name everywhere. 

In this city alone, not many people know who I am.  Not really.  As everyone begins to leave my studio, I notice the usual leering glances I get from the dads who come here.  That happens everywhere I go.  Sometimes I even use it to my advantage.

I can count four men who didn’t look at me that way when I first met them.  The first of which tried to kill me, the second I met entirely by accident, the third couldn’t see at all, and fourth?  Steve Rogers.  The way he looked at me, it was unsettling.  He wasn’t looking at me like I was repulsive, but he wasn’t leering at me either.  He was simply taking in every feature of me and I still feel exposed because of it. 

When the studio empties, I gaze at the place thoughtfully.  It’s not a large studio.  In fact, the place used to be a small gym.  When I leased the property, it took me nearly a month to turn it into a dance studio.  There’s still a reception desk and there are the large bathrooms complete with lockers and showers, but I haven’t quite figured out what to do with the rooms that used to be for tanning beds.  I’ve just been using them for extra storage.  The walls are painted mostly red with black trim along the corners and ceiling. 

I don’t know if that little homage to my past was intentional, but I never changed it either. 

I sigh heavily.  I then remove the tie from my hair and let it fall loose.  I head to my office—which used to be for yoga and Pilates, so it’s an unnecessarily large office—and go to my mini-fridge.  I pull out a bottle of water and take a generous swig from it.  I haven’t filled up the room as much as I could.  I just have a simple L-shaped desk with a desktop and two monitors on it.  I also have two chairs in front of it.  They aren’t on wheels like my chair, but I made sure they were comfortable ones.  Behind my desks, along with my mini-fridge are a couple of file cabinets.  Not all of those file cabinets include things pertaining to ballet.  Other than that, the room is mostly bare, not even any photographs or posters or any real personal touch.  I head back to the dance room.  I hear the doorbell ding. 

“I’m sorry, but we’re closed,” I say without turning around. 

“Fine then, I guess I’ll just find someone else to share this Chinese food with.”

My eyes narrow as I whip around.  I meet the gaze of none other than Peter Parker.  With my free hand, I raise a warning finger.  “You leave this place with my dinner, and I don’t care if you climb to the top of Freedom Tower, I will hunt you down.”

Peter laughs at my threat. _How does that kid do that?_ I ask myself.  I need to find out how to frighten him.  

“I’ve actually done that,” he says as he follows me into my office.  “It was at night, but the view was breathtaking.”

I laugh.  “Why use elevators when you can just crawl up the side of a building?” I muse as I slump down onto my swivel chair.  It took me a long time to find myself a chair for my desk that was actually comfortable. 

“It wasn’t pretty at first,” says Peter, wringing his hands as he sets our food down on the desk.

“Yes, I remember you coming to me to help get those shards of glass out of your hands,” I say.  I felt so bad for him at the time.  Normally, I would tell somebody to man up, but he was a fifteen-year-old boy.  I guess being around him has introduced a sense of humanity I didn’t realize I still had.  All I could do was ask him to hold still as I painstakingly removed all the shards. 

I’m no doctor like Sarah Rogers, but I do have some basic medical skills.  I can patch a wound, but I certainly can’t perform surgery. 

Peter slides me a box of food and I catch it eagerly.  I open it and inhale appreciatively.  “Ah, these people are better than most American knock-offs.”

“That’s probably because it’s a family-owned restaurant,” Peter points out as he breaks his chopsticks and delves into his own food.

“Which you still haven’t taken me to,” I say, raising an eyebrow.  I see he didn’t buy drinks.  I set my food down and slide over to my fridge.  I reach in and grab an orange soda.  “Here you go.”  I toss the bottle of soda towards him. 

He catches it without even glancing towards it.  I’d like to have those kinds of reflexes.  He reaches across the table and clinks it against my own bottle of soda.

“So, how are things coming along?” I ask, returning to my food.  He knows what I’m asking. 

Peter takes a moment to swallow his food.  “I think I’ve perfected my web-shooters.”  He lifts his sleeves to reveal identical wristbands on both wrists.  “Do you want to see?”

I laugh nervously.  “Maybe not in here, Spidey.”

Peter grins thoughtfully.  “Hey, ‘Spidey’, I like it.”

“Speaking of which, have you told your aunt and uncle?” I ask, not for the first time.

Peter averts his gaze.  “What am I supposed to tell them?” he asks.  “That I was bitten by a radioactive spider at the end-of-year field trip last May?”

“You’re not worried they’ll turn you in as a science project, are you?” I ask.  Unfortunately, I know some who would like to take advantage of Peter’s abilities. 

“No,” says Peter.  “I’m just afraid for _them_.  I just feel like the fewer people who know my secret, the safer they are.”  His eyes return to mine.  “What about you?  Does Steve Rogers know your secret?  And how long do you think you can keep it from him?”

Now it’s my turn to avert my gaze.  “No he doesn’t.  If he did, I don’t think he would have had dinner with me last night.  Hell, I think he would even go to heroic lengths to throw me out of his house.”

“But he’s not your landlord,” Peter points out. 

“You really think that would matter to him, Pete?” I ask.  “Think about it, coming home to realize that he is surrounded by lies.”

“You’re an excellent liar.”

I scoff.  He means it as a compliment, but it just makes me feel worse.  “Trust me, kid, spend just a week with him, maybe less, you’ll start to have trouble lying to him.”

Peter grins at me again.  “You like him.”

My face darkens and I point a chopstick at him warningly.  “I wouldn’t continue that if I were you.”

Peter just scoffs.  I miss being able to frighten him.  “Whatever,” he raises his soda to me again before taking a long sip.  “Anyway, how was your date with him?”

This I can actually talk about without any guilty undertones.  “It actually went really well.  I mean, you already know that I wasn’t planning on joining him for dinner, so it was a nice surprise to end the evening.”  When we got home, I tried to give him back his tie, but he told me to keep it.  In fact, I fell asleep with it.  I couldn’t stop breathing in his wonderful mixture of soap and Calvin Klein cologne.  

I don’t need to tell Peter that.

“I thought that he was already on a date,” Peter points out.  He raises an eyebrow.  “Nat, did you do something to Steve’s date?”

“I wish,” I reply before I can stop myself.  I register Peter’s goofy smirk and I realize that I can’t take back that response.  This has never happened to me before.  Not even when I dated Matt for a while.  “She stood him up.”

“Oh,” breathes Peter.  “That sucks.”  He stares into his lap.  “I remember you telling me about what he used to be like.”

I smile.  “If you ask me, I think that you had it better than he had.”  I really do mean that.  Peter used to be just scrawny and bespectacled.  Steve never wore glasses, but his health was very high maintenance.  One time, Sarah caught me snooping, but not before I found out about Steve’s long medical history.  The fact that he once had rheumatic fever astonished me.  It’s not very common, at least not in developed countries. 

What astonished me more is that Sarah caught me snooping.  I can sneak into a house, steal something or kill someone—maybe grab a snack—and be back out without alerting anyone.  Yet, I was caught by Sarah Rogers.  Maybe that house had already grown on me by then.  It has already started to feel like a home, something that I wasn’t used to having, and I had let my guard down.     

After that, I had to be extra careful about what I do.  As far as I know, Sarah doesn’t know that I’ve been getting into Steve’s art room. 

“Do you think he will ask you out again at some point?” asks Peter.  His smile is teasing, but I can tell he means it. 

I throw up my hands.  “I have no idea, Pete.”  Last night he was gentleman.  It took some tough love to get him to stop moping around, but after my little talk-down to him, he was actually really sweet.  “This morning, he smiled at me more than usual, but otherwise didn’t say more than three words to me.  Sarah asked about his evening.”

“What did he say?”

I exhale sharply.  “He said it was ‘eventful’.  Nothing else.”  I finish my orange soda in one gulp, ignoring the uncomfortable fizzling down my throat. 

“Jerk,” mutters Peter.  “Do you think he still doesn’t like you?”

“I don’t know,” I admit.  “Last night when we got home he seemed happy; like he really enjoyed the evening we shared.  Come morning, and he smiles at me, but he barely speaks to me.”  Sarah might have a better explanation.  Most men are so easy for me to figure out.  It was easy for me to figure Peter out, but also he’s a teenager.  Since I have met him, he’s steadily becoming more complex, or just a bigger paradox. Steve, I can’t seem to figure out.

I see his artwork and I’m given the impression of a man with an infinitely creative mind.  I see the man and I see something that’s so completely broken, that I don’t know what to think.  I’m given something of a contradiction.  He can be kind and gentle one moment, and the next he can be hostile and closed off.  He’s haunted by a war and the loss of a best friend and that’s something that I’m not sure I can really help him with.  After last night’s revelations, it’s clear that he’s inexperienced with the very thought that a woman might actually want to spend some time with him.

Is that why he was so closed off this morning?  Is treading this unfamiliar territory for him making him want to crawl back into a hole?  To dive for cover?

And to think that there are people I know who have a particular interest in him.  He’s a veteran without a scratch on him, yet not all scars are physical.  I know of his persona as “Captain America” and there are people who wish to exploit that, or to at least use him for their cause.

I pull myself out of my thoughts.  I regard my teenage friend thoughtfully.  “You know, I just remembered, I bought a bunch of tennis balls recently for no reason.  I don’t even play tennis.”  I offer him a tempting smile.  “You want to help me find a good use for them…Spider-Man?”

Peter seems to think about it for a minute.  “Well, I have been looking to test my new web-shooters.”

I laugh as I stand and clean up out empty food boxes, throwing them in the trash.  “In that case, come join me.”  I come around the desk and link my hand through his arm. 

“Off to the Spider-cave!” announces Peter enthusiastically. 

I roll my eyes, but a laugh still escapes my lips.  “Parker, how many times have I told you it’s _not a Spider-cave_?”


	17. Chapter 17

I’m concentrating.  I have all distractions completely blocked out.  In many ways, I feel that I am in a black, soundless void with nothing but me and my easel.  As soon as my brushes graze the canvas, the whole of Brooklyn might as well have disappeared with the flick of a switch.  A siren couldn’t distract me from the canvas.  The soft, though occasionally harsh, sounds of my paintbrushes sound thunderous in my ears.  The steadiness of my own breath serves as a calming metronome to the rhythm of my painting hand.  Sometimes I get so caught up that my mind blocks out the sound of my own name.

Little by little, my void becomes a full of color as I add more paint to the canvas.  Add some basic colors for the background, then sprinkle it with a little detail to add some surrounding to the focal point, and I become a part of the painting.  My void has become a snow encrusted of pines and spruces.  I have only briefly been in some of the boreal forests.  When my unit was hunting down HYDRA operatives, we were led to the forests of Sweden. 

It was a beautiful place and when we weren’t shooting, I was capturing some of the beauty in my notebook.  I only had some many notebooks. I had a notebook I used for actual notes and another for doodling.

Now more than ever, I am awfully inspired the snowy forests of the Northern Hemisphere.  The more I mentally insert myself, the more I think I feel a real chill.  The bright whiteness of a winter without buildings and the hustling and bustling of crowds puts a beautiful image in my head and I would drive myself crazy if I don’t put onto a canvas. 

What’s the point of having an active imagination if you are unwilling to show some of it to the best of your ability? 

Up until recently, my painting void as I call it would be so severe that I would even tune out my favorite jazz music on my record player.  I guess that is no longer the case.  Somehow, a new sound has snuck into my void.  I’m not unfamiliar to the sound of a piano, but I have only just grown accustomed to there being a grand piano in my house. 

As such, I hear the sound of the piano.  The large instrument resonates throughout the house and I couldn’t tune it out if I tried.  I picture the long soft fingers that play it.  Without even being in the room, I see the moment of those hands, creating such lovely music that I don’t think that I have been appreciating as much as I should.  I feel a little guilty for not knowing more about music theory, let alone being able to tell one composer from another.  I know a few classical pieces by name, but not enough to be able to listen to classical radio and know everything. 

In fact, a couple of days ago, I was riding through the city with Natasha and I listened to her go into a long spiel about a symphony that came on the radio.  I honestly don’t remember much of what she said.  All I do remember is how animated she got as she spoke about it.  I remember the way her eyes lit up, the way her plump cheeks crinkled as she smiled.  It reminded me so much of how I get when I talk about art. 

And now as I paint, creating my own art, I find myself _listening_ to _her_ art.  Her music guides my hand.  With every crescendo my brushes move with more excitement, with colors more vibrant.  With every diminuendo my brushes become calmer, my colors softer.  And so the music reverberating through my house flows out of me and onto the canvas. 

Music is art for the ears, but there are so many ways that music can become a visual entity.  For me, a perfect example can be _Fantasia_.  It was one of my favorite films growing up.  _A Night on Bald Mountain_ might have given me nightmares at one point, but the art was as beautiful as the rest of the film.  The film actually helped inspire my passion for art. 

I don’t know what Natasha is playing.  It’s not based off of any rock song and I don’t recognize it as a classical piece.  Perhaps it’s just something that she came up with on her own.  She’s creating a blend of notes to create a colorful improvisation the same as I blend my oils to create an image on canvas.

Why has it taken me so long to acknowledge this woman as an artist?  Better yet, why has it been so easy for me to hate her?  Did I really just hate her because of the bad way we met each other?  She hasn’t really done much of anything for me to dislike her. 

Perhaps I just hated the way she made me feel.  The feeling I got when I met her, looked into her eyes for the first time, was an unfamiliar feeling.  Maybe that’s why I have been feeling so hostile towards her.

Also, I can’t help feeling that she is hiding a lot of secrets from me.  Why does _that_ bother me so much?  It could be because I have dealt with people who had a lot of secrets in the past.  Maybe it’s caused a nagging feeling that I shouldn’t trust her.  She hasn’t given me a reason not to trust her.  The more I think about it, the more I force myself to accept that everything I have found out about her since I met her is normal.  It’s all part of the process of getting to know her, isn’t it?

That date we had recently, I can’t stop thinking about it.  I avoided her all week since the date.  She wasn’t the woman I planned on having dinner with or even dancing with.  Maybe it was fate, but somehow I stepped into the bar that she would also be in.  I was introduced to her guitar and singing abilities. 

In that very moment, I wanted to fill an art gallery with nothing but her.  Since I have been back from the war, I haven’t presented anything to an art gallery.  I have painted so much.  I didn’t think I would, but I did. 

Earlier this week, I did run into Sharon again.  I visited Sam Wilson again at the VA center.  It feels good to have someone in my life who understands what I have been through.  After the meeting, he invited me out for a beer.  I said yes.  When we both left the room, I ran into Sharon.  I told Sam I would meet him at the bar down the street. 

Sharon.  I thought I would have been more upset with her for standing me up.  I listened to her apologize to me for missing our date, saying that she was caught up at work.  What could she have been so preoccupied with to not even send me a message that she would be late or unable to make it?  All I could think was good riddance and I left without another word.

I met Sam at the bar and we got to talking.  He managed to coax me into talking about my date with Natasha.  I spoke about it from seeing her perform, to sharing pizza with her, dancing with her, even giving her my tie.  Dropping her when I dipped her still puts a smile on my face.  I felt so relieved that I dropped her instead of stepping on her toes.  Before I noticed what I did, I told Sam she looked beautiful wearing my tie. 

He told me I was about to say “sexy.”  I tried to tell him that I wasn’t, but he wouldn’t have it.  He even told me that I seemed to light up, sit up straighter even as I spoke of Natasha.  It reminded me of how Bucky used to talk to me.  Eventually, I admitted that I found myself starting to like Natasha.  Sam became the first person that I admitted to having painted again.  Actually, it was the first time I even told Sam that I painted. 

Sam told me that I was going to have to show him what I can do with a paintbrush something.

In that moment, I told Sam that I was planning on presenting a few paintings at an art gallery downtown the next weekend.  It was already too late to retract that statement, so all I could do was invite Sam to the gallery.

As I study the painting, I think about what I have been doing.  The canvas before me shows a woman in a red, strapless cocktail dress.  Her hair is up in a bun with some loose, wavy tendrils framing her face.  She sits at a large open piano with her hands on the keys.  One of her bare feet is pressing against one of the foot pedals of the piano.  Her fiery hair glitters with droplets of snow and even the piano has is partially encased in snow with icicles hanging from the body of it.  Around the woman and her piano, tangles of white and ice and wood surround her. 

How she feels no chill I might never know, but she fills the icy woods with her glorious symphony.  The still calm of perpetual winter is given a voice as her hands dance along the keys.  Maybe someone within those woods has heard the voice of her piano as he was faced with the conundrum of navigating a frozen palace of leafless life.  I’m not sure why it’s a he, but somehow I just know it.  He hears the voice of her hands and it guides him through the unnavigable woods.  He’s lost, but it’s not because he can’t find his way through the woods.  He’s been lost for so long and hearing this piano he has found something he never knew he was missing. 

I look down at my hands and they are stained with red, white, and black paint.  It’s becoming harder for me to hide that I have been painting.  I haven’t shown any of what I’ve painted to anyone.  I’m satisfied with my painting.  I clean my brushes and my hands and remove my coveralls.  I gaze at the painting again.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I say.  I really should wait for this particular painting to dry, but I want to show it.  I delicately take the painting in my hands and lift it off the easel.  I then unlock the door and open it, closing it behind me.  My instinct tells me that I should lock the door, but for some reason I don’t even bother. 

With the painting in my hands I head for the stairs.  A door opens and I see Wanda.  We stare at each other for a moment.  “Hi, Wanda,” I say. 

She doesn’t say anything.  Her eyes are too focused on the painting in my hands.  “Will you kill me if I go into your art room?” she asks. 

I roll my eyes, but I laugh.  “Be my guest, but don’t touch anything.”

Wanda squeals excitedly and I start going down the stairs before I can see her step into my den of creativity, as my mother has called it.  I walk down two flights of stairs and I see Natasha in the kitchen.  Now I realize I don’t hear the piano anymore. 

“Too late my mind,” I mutter.  “Hey, Nat?”

Natasha looks up from her task of dipping a butter knife into a jar of peanut butter.  She sees the canvas in my hands.  “Oh, my God, Steve!” she exclaims.  She drops the knife and heads over to me. 

I meet her halfway.  I carefully hand the painting to her.  Her face is unreadable as she studies the painting.  Eventually a slow smile spreads across her lips as her gaze meets mine. “Is this me?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I blurt out.

Natasha raises an eyebrow and it’s just so beautiful. 

I stammer.  “I-I-I was painting a forest and then I heard you playing the piano and I got inspired even though I’ve never seen you in a cocktail dress and…”

“You’re so talented,” Natasha interrupts.  “I guess my birthday gift to you was a good choice after all.”

I frown.  Not because of her statement, but because there’s no smugness in it.  “You’ve been in my art room, haven’t you?”

Natasha blushes as she averts her gaze.  “Guilty,” she says as she carefully sets the painting down, leaning it against the wall.  “But I was so curious about that locked door.  So yeah, I picked the lock and I’ve seen your paintings before and after you came home.  I feel like I’ve gotten to know you through your art.  You see the world and you see beauty and somehow you’ve managed to not only capture it but enhance it as well.  I really don’t know why you seem so shy about your art, because I for one _love_ your art.  You see everything in a way that I could only dream of seeing.  I look at your paintings and I see when you’re sad, or angry, or happy. 

“I see joy when you paint depictions of your mother, and Wanda,” she braves a step towards me and touches my cheek tenderly.  “And of me.  You have this wall between you and me, but for some reason that wall comes down when you paint me and…”

I step forward and take her face in my hands.  Then my lips meet hers.  I can feel her muffled surprise, but soon I feel one of her hands reach up and gently hold my face against hers.  I don’t know how long we stand there like that with our lips pressed together, but eventually I pull away.  We both open our eyes and she looks dazed. 

My cheeks flush as I clear my throat.  “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry.” I try to turn away, but she grabs my wrist.  I face her and there’s a smirk on her face. 

“If you ever apologize for kissing me again, I am going to hit you with a peanut butter sandwich,” she warns with a quirk of her eyebrow. 

I actually smile at that.  “Well, we wouldn’t want that now, would we?” 

She laughs and pulls me along towards the kitchen.  Once we reach the table, she passed me the loaf of bread as well as the peanut butter.  “You’re a dork, Steve.”

“Why is that the sweetest thing that anyone has ever said to me?” I ask as I mentally repeat the phrase over and over again.  “Does that make you a dork, too?”

She raises an eyebrow as she takes big bite of her sandwich.  She moans as she savors the taste of that sandwich.  “If you’re a dork, I’m a dork.”

I laugh and she laughs too.

Maybe it’s about time that I start a new chapter in my life.  I sure won’t mind this woman being in it even if I am still unraveling her.            

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe the next kiss will be a little more eventful. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the chapter!


	18. Chapter 18

I never thought I would find myself at one of these again.  At least, I didn’t think I would find myself at one of them so soon.  There was a time when I frequented these places.  I tended to go to the ones in Brooklyn, but eventually I moved up to the ones in Manhattan.  Somewhere along the line my visits to these places became less frequent, eventually to the point that I stopped altogether.  Other interests, mainly enlistment, took over. 

Now here I am again in an art gallery in Midtown Manhattan.  One of the things I have always enjoyed about coming here is seeing other people’s artwork.  I like seeing other people’s perspective on the world.  I love seeing what the world looks like through the eyes of other people.  Abstract art has always piqued my interest too.  I don’t do too much abstract art myself, but I love observing it.  Sometimes, if I track down the artist, I would get into a discussion with them about my interpretation of the artwork.  Sometimes my interpretations would be very much like their own, other times they might be so wildly different from what they intended.  It would make for very lively conversations if the artist wasn’t offended by my interpretation, which was rare.

This is the first time that I have been to an art gallery since before I underwent Dr. Erskine’s serum.  There are people here that I recognize.  Most of them don’t seem to recognize me.  If they do, they don’t approach me.  That doesn’t mean that I haven’t been approached at all.  Like anywhere else, I have been noticed by women more than I ever was before. 

At least I’m not wearing a red, white, and blue costume.  It amazes me how many people don’t seem to remember me as Captain America from USO shows.  Granted, I was always wearing a mask of sorts.  Maybe there are those who recognize me, but don’t make a huge deal out of it.  I don’t see my face on social media much.  I do see Captain America used a meme, people using the persona as propaganda for their sociopolitical opinions.  I see my face getting used to further the opinions of political parties left and right, conservative and liberal, democratic and republican. 

It gets on my nerves.  I served my country, bled for my country, lost friends for my country.  And images of the shield that I keep locked in a trunk are used to troll other people online.

In fact, here at this art gallery, I have seen a few Captain America-inspired artworks.  One is a watercolor of Captain America leading a charge with depictions of the Howling Commandos.  One is a silkscreen print of my face in my Captain America helmet in red, white, and blue.  The most recent one that I have come across that I find myself standing in front of now is my favorite so far.  In the foreground of the painting is an image of my shield along with my helmet on top of it lying in the sand.  In the distance is me walking away into a shimmering sunset.

The title of the oil painting is “ _The Captain Moves On_.”  I think it’s a fitting title.  And I really do enjoy the painting.  I wonder why I didn’t think of such a painting.  My most obvious answer is that I simply haven’t painted any depictions of Captain America.  In fact, I remember promising myself that I would leave that chapter of my life out of my artwork if I ever returned to art.

There is a sense of sadness to this painting.  The brushstrokes don’t seem to have any clear pattern, yet they all come together to make a congruent image.  Some of the brushstrokes seem a little droopy, as if the artist allows some of the paint to get a little runny.  Where this feature appears most prominent is the shield and the helmet, especially the start.  Despite those features, it seems to work for the painting.  For me, it gives off a sense of disenchantment, or profound sadness. 

Captain America must have been a muse for the artist of this painting.  This painting suggests a sense of longing for a lost muse, or might even be a way of saying goodbye to a muse.  To some degree, I feel a sense of guilt.  I have no desire to be the nation’s poster boy again, but the idea that I might have been someone’s muse at one point for a common interest?  I like that. 

For this event, I have brought a number of my paintings.  The art gallery owner recognized me.  I remember her enjoying my work and she was only too happy to accept what I wanted to present to the gallery.    

When I revealed my intention to present some of my artwork over dinner on an evening that everyone was home, Mom got so excited.  She got up from her chair at the head of the dinner table and came over to me.  Whether she suspected that I had started painting again or not, I really can’t decide.  Either way, I could tell how awfully proud she was to see me _admit_ to have started painting again.  She then embarrassed me horribly in front of Natasha and Wanda by hugging me and planting a kiss on my cheek.  She is normally a strict woman, so seeing her make such a display is a rare sight.  When she sat back down, she toasted to me.

“To Steve, the artist,” she toasted.  Natasha and Wanda echoed her.  It was only a day after I kissed Natasha and I was still sorting out my feelings for her.  I’m not sure if either of us were keen on letting everyone know about our budding relationship.  She’s one of my mother’s tenants; shouldn’t our relationship be considered unethical?  And I don’t even know if Mom and Wanda are already aware of our relationship. 

Maybe for Mom at least, it’s another one of those moments where she knows, but is simply waiting for me to talk about it.  She always reminds me that she doesn’t know everything, but I can think of quite a few occasions where I have revealed things to her she already knew. 

Later that evening, I knocked on Natasha’s door.  When she opened it, I saw her with her hair undone and wearing a shirt that was too large for her and sweatpants.  That was _my_ T-shirt.  It was so loose on her that it hung off one of her shoulders and I could tell she wasn’t even wearing a bra.  When I confronted her about the shirt, she said that it ended up in her laundry basket somehow.  She just didn’t feel like giving back.  I didn’t ask for it back either.  The fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra underneath just would have made it awkward.

She invited me into her room.  It was the first time that I had actually been in her room since we met.  I’m not sure what I expected.  I saw her beat-up guitar hanging from a mount on her wall as well as the amplifier she described to me.  It did look like a large toaster.  It was hooked up to a board with a number of pedals on them.  I would have asked why I never overheard her play in the house, but then I saw the large headphones.  She told me that even that little amp can make a lot of noise. 

Next to her “guitar corner” as she called it, was a desk with a laptop with a large monitor hooked up to it as well as a sound system.  There was a gaming controller near it.  There were a couple of them actually.  So she plays videogames on her computer, not just the living room with Wanda and Peter Parker. 

I have never been a big gamer myself, but Bucky was a _huge_ gamer.  Sometimes he managed to get me to play a few videogames with him.  Wanda and Natasha have both invited me without success to play videogames with them.  So far, I have turned them down.  Somehow, they managed to get my mother to play videogames with them.  If she can play videogames, then maybe I can too. 

Other than the guitar wall mount, Natasha’s walls were mostly bare.  However, outlining the ceiling were red Christmas lights, so when she turned out her floor lamp, it gave her room a red glow.  She said she wasn’t afraid of the dark; she simply loved the color red.  I asked her to demonstrate.

She turned out the lights and the room became bathed in red glow.  Natasha herself seemed to have turned several shades of red, literally.  Against the redness of the room, her red hair looked pale and her blonde streaks seems to turn white almost.  The greenness of her eyes became pearlescent and her skin even more so.  The things that seemed to darken however were the shirt she was wearing and her lips.  The shirt of mine she was wearing was blue and in the redness it looked purple.

I don’t know if the color of the room had anything to do with it, but suddenly I had a clearer view of the rise and fall of her breasts through that oversized T-shirt.  I had a sudden urge to reach out and touch them, to feel the swell of them as she breathed.  I wanted to _see_ them.  But I told myself to heal.  I asked her if she wanted to join me at the art gallery.  Naturally, she, Wanda, and Mom were all invited, but I was hoping she could come as my date. 

One date and I still have trouble asking her out.  She smiled up at me and stood on her tiptoes to plant a soft kiss on my cheek.  She said she would love to. Then she led me out of her room with a goodnight.  As I turned away towards my room, I felt something hit me in the back of my head.  It was my T-shirt.  I turned around and caught the briefest of glimpses of a sliver of Natasha’s breast just as she was closing the door.

The woman was a goddamn tease!  I’m going to have to get her back for that eventually.  I didn’t burst into her room right then, but she sure did invade my dreams that night.  As awkward as I felt in the morning about the wetness in my underwear, I also felt relieved.  For once, I wasn’t plagued by nightmares.  

We didn’t interact much during the day.  I was too busy shopping.  I bought many clothes when I came home, but somehow I didn’t by a suit.  I might be an adult, but my mother still feels compelled to be a mom sometimes.  I’m more than capable of going to a tailor on my own, but Mom still insisted on coming with me.  I wasn’t planning on the gallery being a black-tie occasion for me, but I might as well look fashionable, right? 

In all, I think we bought me about five different suits tailored to all my exact measurements.  It might have been better that way because I have become so broad-shouldered. 

For the gallery, I ended up wearing a black suit with a dark blue shirt.  I omitted the tie, preferring to simply leave my top button undone.  Mom rolled her eyes, but she didn’t make me wear a tie.  I haven’t seen what Wanda and Natasha are wearing. 

Now, at the art gallery, I’m surprised by the turn-out.  I don’t have much of a social media presence.  I don’t think I have made a status update on my Facebook page in five years.  After I became Captain America, seeing the large number of followers I have accumulated, I have seriously considered deleting my account. 

Wanda was the one who convinced me to keep it.  She even suggested that I post something about my presence at the art gallery.  I still ended up not making any status update.  She, however, must have some friends on social media, because I have been approached by a number of people.

I’m not sure I appreciate it all that much.  Too many of them seem interested in me instead of my artworks, or anyone’s artworks.  People put a lot of effort into their art and when people go to an art gallery and don’t seem to pay them any heed, it seems a little disrespectful.  Once or twice, I tried to start a conversation with somebody about art, but they kept reverting back to Captain America.

Thankfully, I spot Sam Wilson.  I manage to detach myself from a group of ladies and I make my way to him. 

“Sam, I’m so glad you could make it,” I greet enthusiastically. 

Sam looks around, taking in the columns with paintings on all four sides of them, to the featureless, illuminated walls spotted in artwork, and even to the bar serving cocktail drinks.  I have to say, he has cleaned up nicely, sporting nice pants, a grey button-down shirt and a black blazer over it.  “So this is what Captain America does in his downtime?”

Suddenly, I feel a little embarrassed and I have to look away briefly as my cheeks heat up slightly.  “Yeah, some people are shocked to find out that I prefer charcoals and paintbrushes over guns and a shield.” 

“I like it,” says Sam.  “It’s nice to see what’s past the façade that propaganda has created.”

That comment puts a smile on my face and I almost want to hug the man.  “Well, I probably would’ve been no more than propaganda if I hadn’t ditched a USO show to save a friend and his unit.”  I say it casually, but it does make me sad thinking about Bucky.  It broke my heart to enter that facility to find that he had been tortured and malnourished. 

“Darling, who is this?”

I turn around and see Mom.  I clear my throat as I see her.  It’s been a long time since I have seen her in a dress.  Her hair is up in a bun and somehow I see more of the age lines along the edges of her face, yet she is still a beautiful woman.  Her deep green dress hangs loosely on her shoulders and hugs most of her body with a hem that hangs below her knees.  I never knew my father, but Mom has never taken off her wedding bands in a manner of speaking.  She wears them on a gold chain necklace around her neck. 

I smile warmly as I hold an introductory hand out to Sam.  “Mom, this is Sam Wilson, a counselor at the VA center I have been going to,” I introduce. 

“Mrs. Rogers,” addresses Sam, clearing his throat as he reaches out. 

“People either call me ‘Dr. Rogers’ or ‘Sarah’,” says Mom, grasping his hand and shaking it.  “And you can call me Sarah.”

“Sarah, please call me Sam,” Sam returns.  He looks around.  “I’ve never been to an art gallery before.”

A small chuckle escapes my mother’s lips.  “Well, you’re here now.  So, are you a veteran as well?”

A smile spreads across Sam’s face.  “Pararescue.”

“Ah, I don’t think I know much about the Pararescue,” says Mom, quirking an eyebrow. 

Looking like he’s enjoying a chance to talk about something _he_ knows about, Sam launches into a long explanation about the Pararecuemen.  I slip away quietly and let them continue their conversation in private.  Mom doesn’t like the prospect of war.  She wasn’t quite thrilled about me enlisting, yet she’s always fascinated by the stories veterans have to share.  She likes learning more about the different aspects of the military.  It’s a lot different hearing it from a veteran than simply researching it on Google. 

I look at some more of the paintings.  Thankfully, I’m given room to as people seem to have calmed down about having Steve Rogers in their midst.  One painting catches my attention.  It’s an oil landscape.  Most of the painting shows carefully woven streaks of multicolored paint, mostly created by dramatic short bursts of paint.  They are done in a series of different motions, as well as different sizes of streaks.  Together they all create an image of a dense forest with the colors of autumn.  The different ranges of motion in the strokes of paint suggest hills and, much more obvious, a sharp cliff on the left of the painting.  A waterfall flows from that cliff, which gradually becomes a misty spray towards the bottom of the painting.  It doesn’t seem to be flowing into any river below.  In the sky above, the violent blue of it suggests that the sun is at its highest point of the day with a few clouds casting a shadow on the trees below them.  I’m mesmerized by it.   

“I have to say that it’s fascinating seeing Captain Steve Rogers in his own element.”

I don’t recognize the voice.  I turn around and indeed my eyes fall upon a man I have never met before.  An African American gentleman who looks to be in his sixties, the man is in head-to-toe black.  A long leather trench coat is sported over his equally black suit and tie.  He almost reminds me of a _Matrix_ cosplayer.  Perhaps the most notable feature of this gentleman is the eyepatch which barely conceal the scars running down his left eye.  So he either has no left eye, or that eye is useless.  The only hair on this man’s head is the closely trimmed mustache and connecting goatee beard.

This man looks battle-hardened, but also with an air of someone who doesn’t even trust the person selling him his morning coffee. 

I clear my throat.  “I’m sorry, who are you?”

The man clears his throat as he turns away to view some of the paintings.  “My name is Nick Fury.  I’m the head of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division.  I was hoping we could talk.”

I scoff.  “You could’ve just said ‘S.H.I.E.L.D.’” He doesn’t seem terribly surprised by my knowing of the agency.  “What can I do for you?”

“The American people owe you a great debt for your service as Captain America and…”

“The American people owe me nothing,” I cut him off shortly.  “All due respect, Mr. Fury, unless you want to talk to me about art, this conversation is over.  Whatever it is you are getting at, let me make one thing absolutely clear to you:  I am done being Captain America,” I enunciate. 

Again, Nick Fury’s face remains unreadable.  I’m getting the feeling that this man doesn’t display a lot of emotions.  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says eventually.  “However, I am interested in this painting of yours.”  He gestures to one of my paintings, also naming his six-figure sum that he’s willing to pay for it.  It’s a depiction of Central Park in the middle of a rainy night.  Through the center of the canvas is one of the paths that go through the park.  It could almost be mistaken for a pond with the way the city lights and surrounding trees are reflected off it, albeit in a faint and distorted fashion. 

Even if this man had other reasons for being here, he does seem to have an appreciation for art.  A cynical part of me suspects that this might be part of his persuasion.  By showing appreciation for my art, he could simply be hoping to let me hear whatever proposition he has to offer.

“Done,” I say.  “You can sort it out with the curator, but could you excuse me for a minute?”

Finally some sort semblance of a smile, even if it doesn’t reach his eyes, finds its way onto Nick Fury’s lips.  “I’d hate to take up any more of your time.”

With that, I withdraw.  I head out of the gallery through the main entrance and breathe a scent of fresh air as I reach the sidewalk.  Natasha and Wanda haven’t arrived yet.  I wonder where they could be.  They said they would come and I’m holding them to that.  Mostly that could be because I don’t think either of them want to face my mother’s disappointment.  I find a wall and just slump against it.

The people around me go back and forth, but I pay no attention to them.  For some reason being approached by someone from an agency such as S.H.I.E.L.D. has brought up some very uncomfortable thoughts.  I was already a propaganda tool for the Army.  I’m no covert operative; too many people know my face for me to _be_ a covert operative.  What could they possibly want with me?

If Nick Fury’s intention was to get me asking myself these questions, he sure succeeded. 

Suddenly a gunshot rings through the street.  The sound of gunfire is second nature for me, so I’m not quite as startled as others around me.  I search for the source of the gunshot and not too soon later, I see an old Plymouth car speed away, grazing a taxi in the process. 

I recognize that car. I rush over to that area across the street, dodging cars and people.  I am startled by what I see. Lying on the street, with his hand clutching his chest, is Ben Parker.

“Oh, my God,” I breathe as I sink to my knees.  I take my hands and press them against the man’s chest.  He winces. “Mr. Parker, you’re going to be okay, just keep applying pressure!” I shout as I fumble inside my jacket with one hand for my phone.  Once I manage to get it out, I call 9-1-1 and frantically explain the situation.  As soon as I do, I hang up. 

“Don’t die on me, Mr. Parker; you have a wife and nephew to think about,” I plead desperately. 

Breathing raggedly, Mr. Parker manages a smile.  “You’re a good man, Steve Rogers,” he says. 

The comment strikes a chord in me.  The last time I held someone as they were dying like this was Dr. Erskine.  He said the same thing. 

“Uncle Ben?  Uncle Ben!”  I sigh heavily as Peter Parker comes rushing into view.  I back away, giving the boy some space.

“Peter,” says Ben, weakly.  A weak smile spreads across his lips at seeing his nephew. 

Peter is bawling as he grasps his uncle’s hand.  “I’m here, Uncle Ben.”

“Peter…” it sounds like Ben Parker is trying to say something, but then his eyes flutter shut.  His hand falls from Peter’s grasp. 

I’ve seen this so many times in the war, but it still hurts.  Watching Peter as he hugs his dead uncle to himself, sobbing, feels like déjà vu.  The only difference is that neither of them are wearing uniforms and it’s here in the city I call home.

“Oh my God!” I know that voice. 

Not too soon, Natasha is in view with Wanda nearby.  Natasha is covering her mouth with one hand, with muffled sobs escaping through.  Also, I can hear the paramedics, soon followed by the flashing of sirens.  Natasha closes in on Peter and she sinks down to him.  Despite the situation, she looks very beautiful, wearing a red cocktail dress with wide straps and her hair hanging in a sleek curtain down her back.  Simple elegance.  The paramedics come with a stretcher and Natasha tries, gently, to pry Peter from his uncle’s body. 

Not surprisingly, he resists.  She tries a little harder and eventually she gets him off and she hugs him from behind.  She holds him as he sobs and sobs.  There’s a very noticeable stain of blood on his grey hoodie. 

Wanda is standing next to me and she is crying too.  She and Natasha must have known Ben Parker quite well.  She looks quite pretty as well, wearing a black, glittery dress with a floor-length skirt and with her shoulders covered and matching elbow-length gloves.  Her hair is much like Natasha’s, being devoid of decoration, but also with long earrings. 

“Come on, Peter, let’s get you home,” whispers Natasha.  She tries to help Peter up, but he resists. 

“No, _no_!” he shouts.  He looks up and I am startled by what I see.  Gone is the mild-mannered, fun-loving boy who frequently hangs out with Natasha.  This is something else.  It’s a primal rage that can only be felt from losing someone dear.  He yanks himself out of Natasha’s grasp and runs off.

“Peter, come back!” Natasha yells, running after him.

I look at Wanda.

“You go after them, I’ll make sure Sarah is okay,” she says.

“Okay.” I say.  With that, I run after Natasha.  I saw them disappear around a corner into an alleyway.  I dodge people, running as fast as I can, but also avoiding hitting people.  I reach the alleyway, but once I turn into it, I don’t see anyone.

I run halfway into it and stop.  “Great, they’re gone.”

“I wouldn’t so sure of that,” mutters Natasha’s voice.  I turn around. 

“Natasha?” I ask.  “Where are you?”

“Why do people always forget to look up?” she moans.  I look up and…I’m not sure what to make of what I see.  Natasha is on a fire escape.  Well, not _on_ it, so much as _attached_ to it by what look like…

“Are those…spider webs?” I ask, in utter disbelief.  The webs are securing her wrists and ankles to the second story platform of the fire escape, leaving her at an awkward angle.

She rolls her eyes.  “Yes, now help me down!  We need to find Peter!”

I don’t heed her demand.  Instead I throw up my hands.  “What the hell is going on here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that I have completed one of my other projects, hopefully I can manage more than one chapter a month for all of you. Happy Sunday!

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I love comments. The setting is a bit different compared to that of the story I’m basing this off of, but that’s okay.


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